Darren Priest Mysteries Collection: The Complete Series

By Dick Rosano

All three books in Dick Rosano's 'Darren Priest Mysteries' series, now in one volume!

The Vienna Connection: After separation from service, former military intelligence expert Darren Priest decides to put distance between his old life and his new vocation as a wine and food writer. But when 's called back on a secret mission by the U.S. President, his assignment takes him to Vienna. Soon, Darren realizes that some things you can't unvolunteer for.

The Etruscan Connection: After a distinguished scientist dies under suspicious circumstances at an archaeological dig in Tuscany, Darren Priest and Alana Weber are called in to investigate. Soon, the two realize that the findings at the site could threaten the very fabric of modern-day humanity. As a Pandora's box of secrets, foreign intrigue and revenge opens, can Priest and Weber find out what happened at the dig?

The Paletti Notebook: In 1553 Florence, an assassin sent by Arma Dei disappears into the night with a collection of heretical art and writings. For five centuries the satchel, containing sketches and writings by Leonardo da Vinci, Michelangelo and many others, is pursued by kings, popes, princes, and scavengers. The Paletti Notebook lives on through rumor and legend, which also suggest that it contains the infamous Gospel of Matthias, thought to be lost forever. Years later in Vienna, a bank manager discovers World War II-era photographs that hint to the collection's existence, sparking a new campaign by opposing forces to find the Paletti Notebook and take possession of its contents - by any means necessary.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Next Chapter
• Release date: Jun 30, 2022

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

April 14

Stadtpark, Vienna

---

Hey. I heard the voice from a foggy distance. You can’t sleep here.

I felt a gentle kick on the sole of my shoe.

Okay, I thought, reaching up with my right hand to still the pounding in my head. I could tell that I was lying on the ground, on a grassy field, but the rest was hazy. Fuzzy images in the distance suggested trees, and a building loomed off to my right.

My eyes blinked open and I stared up at a uniformed officer. Another few blinks and I guessed from her beret and blue outfit she was from the Austrian polizei.

Come on, get up, she said, this time without a kick.

Obeying her command was not easy. I tried to push up with my hands but then had to roll over onto my knees to get off the ground. Balance had abandoned me, but I kept moving to show that I was complying with her order.

When I finally got to my feet, I turned toward the officer. She was my height and, even with my blurred vision, I could tell from her voice that she was young. I strained to see more clearly. Brown hair, neatly tied and kept in place under her beret, the red epaulets proof of my earlier guess that she was police. I didn’t know the system or police organization in Vienna, so I couldn’t tell her rank, but I supposed that the appearance of a single star on the epaulet meant something.

What is your name, sir? And why were you sleeping in the Stadtpark?

I looked at her again and tried to focus my eyes while steadying my wobbly legs.

Have you been drinking? she continued.

Too many questions, but I knew I should start with the first.

Darren. Somehow my brain couldn’t come up with my own last name. Then, Darren…Priest. I wasn’t sleeping, I was…

You were asleep, and that is not allowed here. Do you have a hotel room? she asked.

Yes, but how did I…, but then I stopped. I didn’t know how I had ended up in the park, asleep on the ground. From the sun, it appeared to be mid-afternoon and I had no recollection of getting here or why I was here. Still, I knew it would be a bad strategy to ask her how I got here. Sleeping is one thing; sounding intoxicated or disconnected was worse.

I’m…I’m staying at the Marriott. Over there, I said, pointing to the tall gray building across the road. Some details were coming clearer to me, but not the time of day, or even the day itself, or the events preceding this moment.

Slowly, snippets of memory began to refill the calendar in my brain in reverse order. I recalled having coffee and a croissant in the Marriott restaurant at breakfast and then, remembering backward, a hazy memory of walking down the corridor from my room to the second floor to the restaurant. As these details cleared from a blurry gray, other moments gathered in line behind them. I woke that morning, early as usual. I showered and dressed. The evening before was slowly coming into view, including the dinner at Figlmüller last night. The half bottle of Weissburgunder Pinot Blanc and the wiener schnitzel that was so large it overlapped the edges of the plate. There was no one sitting with me, no one to talk to. I bantered with the waiter to fill the void.

I remembered it is an uneventful meal, except for the excellent food that I had often enjoyed at Figlmüller. The waiter was pleasant, the wine satisfying. Paying close attention to detail, I could focus on the time after the dinner when I walked back to the Marriott, sipped a Single Malt Scotch at the hotel bar, then went to bed. Nothing stood out to me as indicating any impact on my ability to think or function.

Well, you can’t sleep here, the young officer repeated, bringing me back to the present. She turned to leave, then stopped and turned back to me again.

Something in my memory of the morning kept infiltrating my thoughts and kept me from promptly responding.

Let’s go! the officer said with a more commanding tone.

The slight tick in the film of my memory was about breakfast, and something seemed out of sorts. There was something that didn’t belong, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.

Please pick up your things and return to your hotel, she said, waving her hand at my backpack and the few items that had spilled from it onto the ground.

The face of a man came into mind. He had a sturdy build and I pictured him talking to the waitress who tended to my table at breakfast. I strained to focus on the snapshot in my memory. He was in his early fifties, maybe late-forties, white, medium height, a full head of salt-and-pepper hair, tiny tattoo on the back of his wrist that was partly covered by the long sleeve of his shirt. He glanced in my direction once, then turned back to the waitress. Probably the restaurant manager.

Now! the police officer barked.

Okay! I replied with some edginess, then it hit me. Wait! I added, putting my hand up. The officer looked at me and grew more impatient, but I was trying to focus on the glimmer of a memory. The man’s hand touched the edge of the waitress’s tray. He looked at me again and then the waitress looked in my direction. Then the film clips streaming through my memory went blank.

The officer kept her silence but planted her fists on her hips in an obvious show of displeasure. I knew that further delays in complying with her command could end up with me being arrested or searched. And neither seemed like a good thing at the moment.

Ignoring the memory film that seemed to have stalled anyway, I knelt gently to the ground to collect my Samsung smartphone, billfold with some Euros, and my passport that had fallen out of the bag.

Standing quickly, another memory snapshot skittered across my brain. I couldn’t hold it, but the short-term recording offered a brief glimpse of the man taking the tray from the waitress while she turned toward the counter to retrieve the espresso cup. The man took the espresso from her, lowered it to the tray, and handed the tray to her. And she turned in my direction to deliver the espresso. But before she could take a step, the film stalled once again. That was all.

No, wait, that wasn’t all. Why was he holding the espresso saucer with both hands, one hand on the saucer itself and one hovering over the tiny cup of coffee?

The officer stood next to me with her hands on her hips, barely tolerating my herky-jerky response to her commands. I was working to recover my memory of breakfast, which she couldn’t possibly know, but she granted me a bit more leeway, seeing that I was not completely stable on my feet.

I felt drunk but couldn’t be. Drugged possibly. Did my breakfast have anything to do with it?

I returned to collecting my things only to realize that my laptop was gone. Phone, wallet, and money were there, but no laptop.

Wait, I said reflexively.

The officer was still waiting for me to act and she didn’t look happy at my further command to wait. I had uttered it more as a mental pause, not an order for her, but under the circumstances she had every reason to doubt my intention. I pulled the remaining things out of my backpack, including baseball cap, sunglasses, and two books, but there was no laptop.

My Galaxy isn’t here, I said.

Your what? she asked, stepping back toward me.

My Galaxy. It’s a laptop. It’s not here.

She returned to where I was crouched on the ground and stood looking at me.

Are you sure you didn’t leave it in the hotel? she asked, crooking her thumb toward the Marriott.

Yes, I said, well, no. I mean I’m not sure. I stopped, fearing my recitation of mostly forgotten facts could get me into even hotter water.

She spun a little to the left and then to the right, hands still on her hips, and looked back at me after surveying of the area.

I don’t see anything here, was her conclusion.

Still kneeling, I scanned the ground around me. A few dozen people were scattered about, sitting on the grass, but they were all spread out, so the area around me was clear of bodies. I, too, found no sign of my missing tablet. Hoisting myself to my feet, carefully so as not to stumble, I turned to the officer. My vision was clearing, and I could now see that she had brown eyes to match her hair, minimalist makeup, and pale red lipstick.

And a Glock 17 semi-automatic pistol and pepper spray strapped to her belt.

It’s not here, I said quietly.

Do you think someone stole it while you were sleeping?

I wasn’t slee… I began but caught myself. Yes, possibly.

What was on it? And why didn’t they take your Euros and phone, too?

I was already getting tired of her asking multiple questions at once.

It had my files, my records…

What kind of records? Personal or business?

With the return of my vision came a return of my wits, so I decided not to answer that question.

Just things. I opted for misdirection.

Sensing my reluctance to cooperate, she turned once again to leave, then paused.

Do you want me to look around some more? she asked.

I hesitated. I wanted her help, but if the polizei were the ones to find my computer they might want to review its contents. I was sure I didn’t want them to ask any questions about the files that I had there.

No, thanks, I replied, and, just as quickly, I realized that my response was implausible and would raise suspicion. As I feared, my reply turned her back onto the search rather than sending her away.

Mr. Priest, she said, looking at me with suspicion. I am Inspector Weber. I will help you find your computer.

I rose to my feet and began walking from my spot in a spiral outward in ever greater arcs. Weber had a more direct style. She began from the point where she found me and walked in a straight line, sweeping her gaze left and right to cover a funnel-shaped sector out from the starting point. Finding nothing, she returned to point of origin, turned to another compass point, and repeated the straight line in another direction. She went about thirty yards out in each direction before returning, piecing together these pie slices of the three-hundred-and-sixty degrees until she had scanned the area, with me wandering in circles past her.

The area was mostly mown grass, but there were some small shrubs, so each of us bent down and looked underneath the low branches and into the tall weeds that had clustered at their base.

After about twenty minutes, Weber stood facing me.

There’s nothing here. Perhaps you left it in your hotel room, she said again.

No, I didn’t. This time I was a bit more emphatic, certain that I had not left the computer in the hotel or unprotected during an impromptu nap in a public park, for that matter. This last thought left me confused and unnerved.

Of course, I was equally certain that I wouldn’t allow myself to be drugged in public.

I encourage you to return to the Marriott, she advised. And when you do, you should rest, and maybe take something to recover from your hangover.

I felt like shit, but I had no reason to think I was hungover.

Here’s my card. She handed me a business card with Bundespolizei printed at the top and a symbol of the organization. Below it, centered, was her name, Alana Weber, and beneath that her rank, Inspektor.

Call me if you decide to file a report, Mr. Priest.

CHAPTER TWO

April 14

Champions Bar

---

After Weber left, I glanced around the area again, found nothing, and resigned myself to the fact that my laptop had been stolen. I kept important files there, but none that would harm me or assist the thief. Still, I had compiled information that I needed, particularly in the work I had planned for this visit to Vienna. Fortunately, my obsession with information also drove me to maintain copies, in this case on a flash drive that I always carried with me. Slipping my hand into my right pants pocket, I found it there, attached to the long lanyard that I always kept with it.

I zipped the backpack shut and slung it over my shoulder, then turned toward Parkring, the main avenue that hugs the contour of Vienna’s old city on this side. At the pedestrian light on the curb, I stood for a moment until the light switched to green, then I crossed the street with the joggers, walkers, and pets and walked directly up to the entrance of the Marriott Parkring.

Just as I anticipated, the laptop was not in my hotel room, nor in the restaurant. I checked with the manager. The waitress was off shift by the time I returned in late afternoon and she didn’t recall anyone finding a small computer, or a man fitting the description I provided.

I scanned the room, checking the faces of the wait staff on shift at that time to see if I could find the man I remembered from the morning. Then I approached the manager on duty.

I’m looking for a man, sturdy build, slightly graying hair, maybe a manager or something? I asked.

When were you here?

At breakfast.

About how old was he? the manager asked.

Maybe fifty, give or take a few years.

Well, no, we don’t have a manager who fits that description. In fact, the manager on the breakfast shift is a woman.

Could he have been a waiter? I asked.

No. As you can see, the servers here are all younger than you describe. Like the waiters in your restaurants in America. There is no one here of the age you describe.

I looked at the manager. He was older than his wait staff crew, but I wasn’t looking for him.

Anticipating my question, he said, I was the manager on shift this morning. Still here, I regret to say, but there was no one forty-something with gray hair working today.

Could he be a guest? I asked.

Oh, but of course, Mr. Priest. We have many guests. That would be very difficult to pin down, sir.

I made a note to return the following morning hoping to find a guest who fit the hazy memory I had. But in the meantime I wanted to return to the reason why I was in Vienna.

After returning to my room, I pulled Inspector Weber’s business card from my wallet and dialed the number.

Anything? I asked.

No, nothing, she said curtly.

Okay, I replied with resignation. It was a natural impulse to want to follow up on my loss, so I didn’t worry about Weber reading anything into my call. I also felt that showing interest in the computer and not trying to avoid contact could have a positive impact on my relationship with the police. On the other hand, I realized that showing too much worry about the missing files might generate renewed curiosity on their part.

I returned to Stadtpark as the sun was dipping toward the roofs of the buildings. This was a popular public park, just across the Parkring from the Marriott, and dozens of people still walked down the paths or were sitting on the lawn. I thought perhaps I could talk to someone who might have seen something earlier in the day, something that might jog my memory. Wandering throughout the area where I had been a few hours before, I found a couple of young women sharing a blanket, and I was quite certain they had been there earlier. I approached and introduced myself.

Excuse me. I am looking for something. My name is Darren Priest and I was here this afternoon.

One of the women giggled at that, telling me that she remembered me sleeping, and being awakened by the police.

Yes, I know, said the other woman. They were sitting up but leaning closely together in an intimate embrace.

Did you see anyone with me? I asked.

"You mean, other than the polizei?" she asked amused.

Yes.

No, no one, her partner replied.

How about before the police officer arrived? I persisted.

They both shook their heads.

I thanked them and moved on, keeping my eyes on the ground for any clues but also surveying the area to see if I recognized anyone else. No luck. Realizing that it was getting on six o’clock, I left the park by the winding sidewalk on which I had entered the area, crossed the busy divided street of Parkring, and re-entered the glittering lobby of the Marriott.

The doorman nodded a pleasant "Gutentag as I passed by. He was helping new arrivals at the check-in desk. I swiped my keycard and pressed 8" for the concierge level. The evening snacks and wine would be served by this hour and I thought I’d get a glass of the local Zweigelt to sip in my room while I dressed for dinner.

The wine tasting that served as the cover for my visit was scheduled for the next evening, so I would spend tonight at Cantinetta Antinori, a restaurant owned by the Antinori wine family. After discovering the establishment on my first visit to the city a few years back, I had become a regular customer, so much so that I knew the layout and selection of dishes, and the staff knew me. Not only were the wines excellent – as would be expected from Piero Antinori and his wine empire – but the menu was truly Italian and unfailingly exceptional.

Back in my room, I changed from my short-sleeved shirt and jeans into a button-down dress shirt – sans tie – and slacks. The Zweigelt was a very pleasurable wine, not in a style that one would expect from Italy, France, or Spain, but true to the grape and one of Austria’s flagship wines. I sipped at the glass and listened to the short bursts of news on CNN as I roamed around my suite getting ready for dinner.

I let my mind wander to the wine tasting that I would attend the next evening, allowing myself to be distracted from thoughts of the lost laptop. I am a columnist for The Wine Review, a wine magazine in the U.S. that had gained enough respect internationally that its ratings could decide the fate of new wine releases around the world. My columns focused on European wines although I maintained a strong interest in the wines of America’s west coast too.

Tomorrow’s tasting was part trade event and part celebration, but all Italian. The writers would be allowed in first to sample the wines and make their notes, catching short conversations with the winemakers in attendance, then to be followed by a small and select audience of consumers. This would not be the usual cattle rush that occurred so often in the States, where a purchased ticket would be all that was necessary for the wine-thirsty curious to gain entrance. This small, chosen group of consumers would no doubt include local luminaries and politicos – not to mention people with deep pockets. Special in their way, but not of much interest to me. I planned to attend the trade part, get my notes, enjoy the wines, and talk to the industry reps. I would excuse myself then, before the doors opened to the deep-pocketed buyers.

But that was still another day off. Jetlag had never been much of an issue for me, but I wanted my senses to be fully functioning to cover the event for The Wine Review, so another day would be a welcome respite. Downing the last sip of Zweigelt, I made a quick survey of everything on the table and nightstand to memorize their positions. The clock on the nightstand was perched at a forty-five degree angle with respect to the bed, my small pile of note papers were left in practiced disarray, the pen straddling the edge of the pile, and the wine glass was placed just three inches from the edge of the counter. I swung the door next to the minibar open to reach the room safe inside, then set the unlocked door ajar at exactly one inch.

This penchant for placement was necessary in my life. Whenever I traveled, I was careful about my private space and wanted to be sure to notice if anything had been disturbed. Satisfied with the mental pictures I had of anything that might be moved in my absence, I turned toward the door and hung the Do Not Disturb sign on the handle before heading down the hallway.

It was too early for dinner so after riding the elevator to the lobby, I descended the sweeping staircase, crossed the wide expanse, and settled onto a barstool in Champions, the sports bar that fronted the street. There was a soccer game on the television, pitting teams in the UEFA Champions League, which I thought might serve as a distraction from thoughts about my assignment and my lost computer.

The distraction didn’t work. My mind kept mulling over the events of the morning – at least as far as I could remember them before being kicked awake by Inspector Weber. Not a bad vision to wake up to but the loss of my computer raised the hair on my neck. I was here in Vienna with a single purpose and I had to keep my purpose concealed. Maintaining a low profile and keeping off the authorities’ radar would help too. Losing track of an essential tool like the laptop or becoming too well known to the local authorities could expose me to danger and interfere with my mission.

Still, I wondered whether the loss of the computer was something other than a random theft. Perhaps my movements had already attracted unwanted attention and I had been drugged and then victimized in retaliation. It wasn’t what I was expecting but it couldn’t be completely discounted either.

Thinking through the events of the last two days, my biological fitness in the morning, and other facts convinced me that I had been drugged, probably via the espresso at breakfast. I knew that even if I found the waitress, she would not be able to tell me anything and I doubted that she was part of the plot. She had been taken advantage of by the man with the salt-and-pepper hair, and I had been his victim.

What’ll you have? the bartender asked.

A Stiegl, I replied, indicating the local beer I had come to appreciate on my visits to Austria. He pulled a cold glass from the freezer below the bar, tipped it at an angle below the dispenser, and pulled the long, white handle to fill the glass with what they called the Salzburg beer.

While I sipped from the tall frosty glass, I recounted what I knew and what I remembered. In my line of work, discrete movements and constant awareness of surroundings were like life insurance. Attention to detail, especially about your surroundings could be the difference between surviving and dying. I would not have fallen asleep in a public place like the Stadtpark without being induced. But my attention to detail had failed me at the breakfast table. If my memory could recall the man interfering in the service of the espresso, why hadn’t my internal alarm gone off? I knew that I couldn’t resolve that glitch in my training but made a note to consider it at another time.

A roar from the soccer match’s spectators rose from the speakers on the sides of the television and drew my attention away from my thoughts. FC Zurich had just slipped the ball past a sprawling goalie on the Bayern side, chalking a one-nil score in the early minutes of the match.

My cover should still be intact, I thought. But if I was singled out for drugging and theft, how could it not be related somehow to my mission, and possibly to my dual identities?

The beer went down well, though I sipped it slowly.

Another? the bartender asked after I finished the glass.

No. Thanks. Gotta go. Check?

I planned to have wine at dinner and – knowing the lengthy repast that I planned at the Cantinetta – there would be wine, so I didn’t want to overindulge with beer beforehand.

The bartender handed me the little paper slip from the empty mug on the bar and I folded out a few Euros to pay for the drink and leave a tip. I couldn’t completely drop my American training, so I probably left a bigger tip than was necessary here in Europe. But, then again, he didn’t seem to mind.

Slipping off the barstool, I left Champions through the street-side door, turned right, and headed off on a familiar path on Weihburggasse toward the main part of town.

CHAPTER THREE

Five Weeks Earlier

Washington, D.C.

---

Sit down, he said.

According to the sign on the office door, he was Dr. Matthew Bordrick, but I knew nothing about him and still couldn’t piece together why I was called here for the interview. We were in a nondescript office building in Washington, on a block just steps from the Old Executive Office Building.

Darren Priest, right? Bordrick began.

I nodded.

May I call you Armando? he said as he closed the door to the office. I thought it might be pointless to argue that I was actually Darren Priest, but I remained silent.

Bordrick circled back around his desk and lowered himself into the chair slowly. He opened a folder and leaned in to read from it.

Armando Listrani. Born July 25, 1985. Parents Bernardo Listrani and Alice Kraft Listrani. He paused and looked up at me, then returned to the folder.

Served as a U.S. Army intelligence officer from 2008 to 2012 with tours of duty in Syria, Afghanistan, and… and he paused to peer at me over his reading glasses, …and ‘other assignments not on the official record.’ What does that mean Armando? Not on the official record?

It seemed like the best answer was just to shrug, but I did so without looking away from Bordrick.

’Not on the official record,’ Bordrick repeated. But this is your Top Secret folder. What could not be on this official record?

Bordrick reached below the top sheet of paper to retrieve another sheet from the bottom of the stack.

Operation Best Guess, he said with careful enunciation. Code Word project with the most limited access of any operation I have ever seen. What does Best Guess mean, Mr. Listrani? Or Priest, if you prefer.

If he was reading from a paper that contained the name of the mission Best Guess, he already knew about my military service and my personal life before it. But he didn’t really know what we did, what we could do. Only the squad and Sergeant Randal knew. Very possibly some others at very high levels. But until this moment, I had not seen my own secret file and didn’t know how much it contained – or who else might have read it.

There were six of you, he continued, reading from the paper. You interrogated prisoners. Sometimes interrogated our own guys, he said, occasionally referring to the notes on the page. Three remain, including yourself, Pelman, and Kramer. Talkin, Brothers, and Ramon are gone. Then he unceremoniously dropped the folder on the desk, looked at me and said, All three suicides.

With a slight sneer, he asked, Best Guess, Armando. Does that mean you were famous for making guesses?

We didn’t guess, I responded, my voice a mix of pride in my work and contempt for this doctor, whatever his specialty was. We were chosen because we could glean the truth from what the target was telling us.

You mean you knew what he was thinking? That’s ridiculous. You can’t read minds.

We didn’t read minds. I crossed my right leg over my left without breaking eye contact with Bordrick. I said we could tell when they were lying.

And how did you do that?

After all this time it was still hard for me to distill all the factors that went into the Best Guess team’s conclusions. Body language, facial expression, a subtle rise in temperature of the target that caused his skin color to take on a tinge of pink. The faintest movement of his eyeball, the tightening of certain muscles around his eyes, nose, or mouth. The cadence of the target’s words was easy to interpret; the muscular twitches of his exposed forearms were more complicated and elusive.

Sergeant Randal drilled us not to think. He raged at us when we tried to understand what was happening instead of unconsciously reacting to the signals.

If you think about it, he bellowed, you’ll lose it. It’s got to be below your skin, outside your mind, unthinking reaction to a host of non-verbal signals. Signals that our early human ancestors were experts at reading because they had to interpret every signal in their environment, signals they got from other animals competing for the environment’s limited resources. Even signals from members of other human tribes.

Randal recited this history with a strong sense of pride in what early hominids were capable of, as if he identified more closely with them than he did with his contemporaries. And he often ended with a disappointing conclusion about where we had turned away from the path.

But Homo sapiens lost the ability to read such things, he said, when we thought we had developed a better brain.

Randal always scoffed at this last point. He was brilliant and had, as far as I could tell, an encyclopedic memory of his favorite hobbies – ontogenesis and phylogenesis – how from the earliest stages of embryonic development – ontogenesis – the human body nearly mirrored the developmental stages of human evolution – phylogenesis.

We are more animal and more instinctual than we think, he often said. His disdain for H. sapiens’ belief in our own exceptionalism was the metaphorical knotted cord he used to beat us with, pushing us to ignore our thoughts and rely on our instincts.

I turned my attention back to Bordrick.

Best Guess was about understanding what the target was thinking, I began, or what he was trying not to think, even if he didn’t fully understand it himself. If we could get past the surface and decode the intent of his actions, we could steer him toward revealing more to us than he would to people who tortured him with rubber hoses and electric prods.

Bordrick stared at me without blinking. I could sense his doubt, his not wanting to believe what I had told him and not wanting to accept the premise of Operation Best Guess.

He flipped the cover of the folder closed and then looked up at me.

I don’t believe you, and I don’t believe you have any special talent, but he does.

Who’s he? I asked.

The man I work for. Bordrick quickly shifted the conversation before I could ask who that was.

And this ‘Darren Priest.’ Is that your other name? he asked me.

I shrugged. I had adopted the name when I left the Army. I was not ashamed of my earlier work, but the sensitivity of our operations – and the people that I had interacted with – convinced me and Sergeant Randal that it would be best to erase Armando from the present tense. So, now, I lived mostly under Darren Priest and shed references to my past as Armando Listrani. Both monikers appeared in this file, though. Still, I wasn’t going to make it easier for Bordrick until I knew more about him.

You said something about the man you work for, I said as I tried to reverse the direction of the conversation. Who is that?

When I was called by my point of contact at the Defense Department and told to report to Bordrick’s office, she said she couldn’t tell me the purpose of the meeting. Just show up, was all she said. I had served through my period of active duty and through the statutory period of inactive reserves afterward. But I also knew that certain careers lingered longer, like the muse who sits on your shoulder and might, at any time, whisper come back.

My career was like that.

I pressed the woman at DoD for more information, reminding her that I was living a comfortable existence as a wine and food writer now, and she let out a little laugh.

Sorry, she said, and I could almost see her shoulders shrug through the cell phone connection. Some things you don’t get to unvolunteer for.

It was a well understood reminder, a code phrase in my work that allowed no dispute.

I clicked off the call and assumed that I would be meeting this Bordrick guy and then, maybe, I would find out.

Where did you get the name? Bordrick’s question brought me back to the present. I didn’t have an answer for him. It had just come to me when I was rewriting my personal history to erase Armando Listrani from the public record. So, I shrugged my shoulders, still unwilling to give him much until he started to reveal more to me.

"And you write for The Wine Review, he continued, glancing at the page in the file. Are they any good? Are you any good?"

Depends, I replied.

On what?

On whether you’re cultured enough to appreciate good wine.

Bordrick’s lips stiffened and his right eyebrow arched slightly at the open insult.

President Pendleton wants to see you, he said with finality, standing to show me out the door. There was a uniformed guard outside the office who turned to me as I stepped over the threshold and he pointed down the hallway.

I will escort you to the White House, sir, was all he said. I followed him down the corridor to the elevators, then down to the garage below the building. There was another armed officer already in the driver’s seat of the Chevy Suburban, so I got in the back as the first officer settled into the front passenger seat.

Images of the Oval Office are all over the news and have been for decades. The decorations may change, from the subtle blues and greens of presidents like Kennedy, Bush, and Obama, to the gaudy gold and tinsel of Trump, but the basic layout is familiar to any American and most foreigners. Still, I had never been in the room and I was pleasantly awed when I was ushered in.

I stood in the middle of the carpet without touching the furniture, lightly unnerved enough to avoid even sitting down on the couch, when the side door opened and the tall, lanky frame of President Michael Pendleton strode in. A Secret Service agent had his hand on the doorknob and quietly pulled the door shut, leaving me alone with the most powerful man in the world.

It’s nice to meet you, Pendleton said extending his hand and smiling, then motioning for me to sit down on the chair next to him. He didn’t sit behind the Resolute Desk, choosing instead to sit close to me, nearly knee to knee at the chairs that were nested close together in front of the desk.

You were in the Army, Pendleton said, and I nodded as the President settled back into the cushions.

In a special interrogation unit, he said. His follow-up wasn’t a question. He knew the answer, so I just nodded again.

I have something that I need for you to do, he said, reaching out to the desk to retrieve a piece of paper.

But, sir, I’m not in the Army anymore. I’m a…

A wine writer, he interrupted with a wave of his hand. His demeanor seemed to blend respect for my past career but amusement at my choice of follow-on endeavors.

You knew that your time in the Army will follow you, he added. People will wonder, they’ll write stories. You knew that, right?

He paused to sip gently at the rim of the coffee cup that he had lifted from the brass coaster on the desk. Steam from the hot liquid swirled toward his face, and he followed with another careful sip. I sat quietly, considering the point he was making about my time in the Army, admitting without comment that I had already considered that bleak possibility myself.

I appreciate the time you spent in the service of our country, Armando. The country appreciates it. But although you were undercover, even deep undercover, at some point your activities – legitimate though they may have been – could be discovered and be made public.

Even though the President seemed pleasant and friendly, his affable manner couldn’t dispel the odd sensation I got that his phrasing carried with it a small dose of threat. Reading his expression was easy; Pendleton may be president, but he was inept at disguising his thoughts. Knowing that he – and certain others – were in possession of my entire file, the threat I perceived could entail the use of information about me, from the past to the present. As far back as high school, which was about how far service records and background investigations went for security clearances. All that was in the file or could be added to it.

We didn’t engage in any torture, sir, I said defensively. It was rare that I would feel defensive about the work of Best Guess, but the Oval Office had that effect on me. We didn’t have to, I added.

Pendleton smiled slightly, as if my comment was of little concern and possibly irrelevant to the greater context.

Would you have tortured the prisoners to get information? he asked.

Never. It’s repugnant. And if that’s not enough, it’s also immoral and illegal. Not to mention completely ineffective. The kind of information you get from someone terrified by torture and trying only to stop the pain…

Would be useless? he interjected with raised eyebrows.

I paused to cool my head, but the carefully constructed protocols for interrogation had been corrupted by untrained people hoping for a quick hit with waterboarding or other inhumane techniques. I wanted the President to know that we abhorred that tactic, for reasons of human dignity as well as effectiveness.

Funny, Pendleton laughed, earlier administrations didn’t agree with your assessment. But I agree with you, Armando. Still, that’s not the point.

It is precisely the point, sir, if I may. We…

We? You mean the team of Operation Best Guess?

Yes. We were trained to be…

Trained?

Well, no. Adapted. Talented, I replied.

Pendleton clearly knew that the team of Best Guess had an obscure ability to discern truth and lies based on behavior and physical responses alone. His question betrayed a familiarity with our ops and convinced me that our team’s secrets were well briefed to him.

Still, Pendleton interrupted my explanation, whether you choose to be a wine writer or a plumber, Armando Listrani’s past could catch up with him. Why not kill him?

The directness of his solution caught me by surprise.

Don’t worry, Armando, he chuckled. I don’t want somebody to kill you. Then he leaned forward in his chair toward me and added, But wouldn’t your new career proceed more easily if you could just go on as a wine and food writer without the cumbersome burden of the Listrani identity lurking in the shadows?

I had to consider his suggestion. And not for the first time.

I didn’t do anything wrong, sir. We didn’t do anything wrong.

I felt the need to justify my career as an interrogator. Our services were vital to success during the war, and we – the six of us on the team – carried out our duties without inflicting physical or emotional harm on the subjects. We simply listened to them, picked up on misdirection signals however subtle, and steered the conversation toward new avenues until the subject gave up the information we were looking for.

There were the easy ones, mostly guys whose wives and children made them fear American authority and who gave up their secrets almost as soon as we entered the room. There were some who thought they could beat us, giving off a glow of confidence, but who crumbled when we told them things, we detected that they thought they had hidden, clues to things not said.

And then there were others who were skilled at layered stories, each layer disguising some kernel of truth but hidden beneath off-the-cuff comments that created a directional nightmare. Still, they broke too. We didn’t have to read their minds; we only had to uncover how they were being untruthful. Each time we were able to point out where their statements didn’t have the ring of truth, a slowly simmering fear would grow inside them. As the fear of our abilities to read into their comments grew, so did the simmer, which turned to a boil, which revealed itself as tells that even a first-year interrogator could unpuzzle. Even the hardened targets collapsed under that strategy.

No, of course you didn’t do anything wrong, the President added, bringing me back to the moment. But people who traffic in conspiracies could make something of your methods – and your past. You seem to be very happy with your writing and your wine tasting. Why not secure that as your true identity?

Why would you become involved in this? I asked.

I need your help on something, he replied.

But I’m not volunteering for…

The President raised his hand to stop me and smiled.

Some things you can’t unvolunteer for.

President Pendleton’s use of that same phrase made me realize that he was dead set on this, and he wasn’t asking me if I was agreeing to do it.

I wouldn’t – couldn’t – jump right in. I still worried that my background was being used to put me in a dangerous, possibly irreversibly dangerous, position.

What is it that you want me to do? I asked. I decided it was worth hearing him out. Besides, the President had already made it clear that he held the strongest hand.

Politics is a dirty business, he said, his gaze turning downward in an instinctual move used by most people unconsciously trying to hide from the truth. He spoke quietly but otherwise made no effort to conceal the nature of our conversation. My mind drifted back to the days of Watergate and the taping system that Nixon had used in this very room. From Pendleton’s frank words, I concluded that there was no such system in place now.

Not everyone plays by the rules, he continued, and I had to stifle a laugh. The game of politics might have rules, but most people had long since given up thinking these rules were designed for everyone.

Pendleton stood and stared out the window with his back to me. The move required that he raise his voice a bit more, another clue that what he was about to say was less sensitive than what he had already revealed. He might not have known what his body language revealed, but I did.

Someone is trying to blackmail me. The files he has are made up of course, fictions made up about things I have supposedly said or done in private, people that I knew but didn’t disclose, and ideas that I supported but denied. He’s willing to attack my family, figuratively or literally.

Who is it?

That doesn’t matter just now, he said. But he has collected enough of this crap that he could use it against me in the next election.

I thought we were talking about his family, but Pendleton made it clear that this was politics. Besides, the ‘family’ angle was overused. It was the most common misdirection employed by politicians, and I quickly picked up physical tells that revealed his prevarication. Sergeant Randal’s scowl came to mind, so I didn’t try to analyze the President’s skin tone, pupil dilation, or other factors. But I also had complete faith in my innate ability.

The President was not telling the truth, at least not all of it. Maybe some of the information was true, but probably this person he was talking about had corralled enough information to cause trouble for him.

What else can you tell me? And what do you want me to do about it?

He has some records, Pendleton resumed his description, now walking around the desk in a complete circuit before returning to me, almost like he was pacing. He stood next to me, hovering a bit, when he continued.

They are probably not here in the U.S.

Why do you think that?

He has a lot of friends around the world. And he has assured me that I could ‘shake every tree in America’ and not find his files.

Then where?

Pendleton sat on the edge of the Resolute Desk, one knee swung up on the surface so that his lower leg dangled. He paused to take another sip of the now cooled coffee.

There are three likely places – Berlin, Mendoza, and Vienna – but I’ve checked out Berlin and Mendoza through other channels. Frankly, I can’t completely cross them off the list, but my money is on Vienna. Austria, that is, not Virginia.

Why there?

"He has invested a lot of money and kept it off the books in the States. I found out that he deals with a company called DFR-Wien, a bank that is headquartered in Vienna. They manage large portfolios for customers around the world, and they offer additional levels of security gratis for their high rollers."

Like?

Complete secrecy.

That’s a red herring. In my business, we know there is no such thing as complete secrecy. ‘No secret is known to only one person,’ Sergeant Randal often reminded us.

So, you think that in addition to the money he has invested at this bank – DFR, right? – this guy is holding information about you that would endanger your career and possibly your family?

I ripped off the end of that sentence without pausing. A corollary to my being able to pick up on other people’s lies was learning how to sound convincing on my own. If my voice had broken as I said, possibly your family, Pendleton might have sensed – even in an unconscious way – that I doubted him. For now, I knew that I should keep him believing that I believed him.

Yes, was his terse reply.

CHAPTER FOUR

April 14

Cantinetta Antinori, Vienna

---

The heartbeat of Vienna is felt most keenly in Stephansplatz, a great square at the junction of several streets with massive stone churches, sculptured fountains, and monuments to the past intermingled with the chrome and glass restaurants and bars of the present.

Towering over all is St. Stephen’s Cathedral, known to the Austrians as Stephansdom, an immense Gothic-style church that dates from the 14th Century. Like other churches that dominate the streets of medieval cities, this one has been host and witness to years and years of historic events in Vienna. Saints and sinners, politicians, statesmen, and charlatans all vying for the attention of the crowd, whatever the century. Whenever I walk through the squares and grand avenues of Europe, I understand Americans’ fascination with European culture better, especially considering how so much of it is rooted in the seamless – though often troubling – mingling of Church and State. Just as Americans stand in awe of the Church-State marriage that typifies Old Europe, that same mingling is expressly – though often inadequately – banned in the United States.

Cantinetta Antinori sits on a quiet street just off the main plaza and down from St. Stephen’s Cathedral. It’s a classic ristorante with a superb menu that is considered the best among the best of excellent Italian eating establishments sprinkled throughout the city.

On my way to dinner at the Cantinetta, and approaching too early for my reservation, I stopped by the Onyx bar across the plaza from Stephansdom for a cocktail before dinner. The bar is on the second floor of the DO & CO Hotel and features a glass wall and front row view of the crowds milling about below on Stephansplatz. Malach was behind the counter, swirling a towel through the interior of a large wine glass to dry and polish it, when I entered.

"Guten abend," he said with cheer. I had met Malach on a prior visit to Vienna. He prided himself on two things: gossip about the celebrities who passed through his bar, and the velvety smooth cocktails he concocted, blending sweetness and texture from the ingredients to seductively disguise the alcohol and, in so doing, get his customers’ tongues a-wagging. I had to secretly admire his approach. Perhaps his means of getting at the truth was even better than my own.

Good evening to you too, Malach, I responded, settling onto the bar stool in front of him. Since I was alone, I didn’t need to take up one of the small, knee-height settees that crowded the glass view overlooking Stephansplatz. Besides, I enjoyed the conversation with Malach and looked forward to the endless stream of stories about the glitterati who frequented the Onyx.

So, who’s been here lately? I asked.

He set the glass down on the counter and leaned in towards me. He didn’t intend to whisper or conceal his next comments about the famous people who came to enjoy his drinks. Instead, he used this rather obvious maneuver to get the attention of customers sitting nearby that an important story was in the offing.

George Clooney, he said, though he shrugged his shoulders. But he was less interesting to me than the beautiful Amal Alamuddin.

So, Malach was more interested in Clooney’s spouse – equally accomplished as her husband – than in the guy whose face was spread across the billboards of Viennese movie houses on this very day.

What’s he like?

Friendly. Very friendly, he said, resuming his polishing of the wine glass. I was pleased. He asked me for my best cocktail, Malach began, but smiled. How can I tell him my best? They are all good!

I had to laugh. Bartenders are taught to be good listeners, but I had learned from past visits that Malach was a talker, not a listener.

What did you fix for him?

Well, he asked about vodka, so I blended it with vermouth, Campari, and a hint of ginger.

That’s not far off from a Negroni, I said in protest.

Of course, it is far off from that. It’s mine!

And Amal?

She only drinks wine. Fine wine.

While we talked, Malach began mixing a drink. With a flourish, he presented it to me, although I hadn’t ordered anything yet.

What is it? I asked.

Campari and soda, he replied simply.

That’s not completely true, is it?

"Well, Campari and soda is a common drink in Italy, but I make it uncommonly here. You are going to Cantinetta Antinori for dinner, yes?"

I hadn’t told him this, but only smiled at his intuition.

"You always stop by here on your way to the Cantinetta," he continued, making light of my apparent confusion. Maybe he was also a bit clairvoyant, another trait that I envied.

I lifted the tumbler and examined it with my eyes first, then looked at Malach for an answer to my question.

Amaro, he added, indicating a smooth liqueur favored by Italians. Just a few drops.

I settled in with my drink while Malach attended to other guests at the bar. Swinging to the side on my barstool, I looked out the windows onto the plaza below, observing the throngs of tourists who wound through the streets and around the cathedral. It was a typical spring evening in Vienna, with occasional notes of a cooling breeze piercing the calm warmth of the earlier hours. The pedestrians below were enjoying the fresh air and lights of the city, and we – comfortable in the plush seating of the Onyx Bar above – were enjoying our people-watching from above.

When I had finished the drink, I thanked Malach, dropped a twenty Euro note on the bar and headed back to the elevators to return to the street level below.

"Buona sera," Malach called after me as I lifted my hand in salute and retreated to the lobby.

Three young people in business attire stepped out of the elevator as the doors opened. I held the door for the last of them and stepped into the empty carriage. After a quick descent to the street level, I exited the hotel from the corner doorway of the building, turned to my right and headed toward the Cantinetta.

Luca greeted me at the door as he had on each previous visit. He was familiar with my published articles and even the occasional mention of the Cantinetta Antinori itself when my visits to the city justified reference to my time in Vienna.

"Buona sera, Signor Priest, he said, shaking my hand. È passato molto tempo."

"Sì, sì," I said, without making any excuses for the passage of time since my last visit.

I settled into the small table to the left of the service bar and was greeted warmly by the other waiters. I had met each of them on several occasions in my visits to Vienna, and they remembered me for this but most likely for the generous tips I left.

"Risotto con tartufi," I said to Luca while spreading the napkin on my lap. I couldn’t suppress a grin, knowing that he would not be able to produce my favorite risotto with the white truffles of Piedmont.

"Non è la stagione, he replied. No matter how much you like the white truffle, it’s not available in April."

"Sì, I responded with a smile. Regrettably. But there are so many other dishes to choose from here, non è vero?"

Luca nodded with confidence, and I allowed him to choose my dinner.

The waiter brought a glass of Prosecco, a sparkling wine that had gained many followers in recent years. Then he settled a basket of rolls and bread on the table and poured a bit of olive oil onto the small plate by its side. I sampled the wine and tore off a bite-size chunk of the still-warm bread to dip into the olive oil that he brought to the table.

Several minutes later, a small serving of Gamberi con pomodoro arrived, shrimp with tomatoes and avocadoes over which a saffron mayonnaise had been spread. The tomato accompaniment embellished the sweet flavors of the shrimp which had been grilled to perfection, and the saffron mayo completed the taste sensation. He had chosen the wine well – the Prosecco paired beautifully with the dish.

After I consumed this course, the waiter whisked away the plates and the empty flute of wine and Luca looked in my direction for approval. I nodded and smiled, and he returned the gesture, full of confidence that I had been well treated.

The Cantinetta Antinori has collected a sumptuous wine list with a foundation of Antinori wines, but it also boasted an impressive assortment of other estates that had been acquired during Piero Antinori’s stewardship. Luca knew that I preferred the simple pleasures of Santa Cristina, a Tuscan red wine produced by the Antinori estate, so I was not surprised that the waiter brought a glass of it to my table. I could tell the wine’s identity by its forward aromas and supple texture, an astonishingly well-made wine for an easy price, and I tipped the glass in Luca’s direction, thanking him for remembering my preference.

Next came a plate of Stinco d’agnello stracotto, lamb shank that had been braised in red wine until the meat fell easily from the bone. The mixture of potatoes and plums served on the side were an added surprise and I knew that I hadn’t tasted this combination before. There was no time to fixate on lost memories, however; instead, I used my fork to dive into the assorted pleasures of the plate.

Twenty minutes passed, then more, as I enjoyed the dish and relaxed in between bites.

"Tutto bene? Luca asked. Everything is good?"

Caught with the glass of Santa Cristina at my lips, I could only smile and nod, and he returned to his station before moving toward another table that needed his attention.

The waiter removed the empty plate and now-empty wine glass but held out his hand to me, palm down, indicating that I should not be in a hurry and suggesting that the meal was not over yet. I had left myself to their intuition and not ordered anything thus far, and yet I knew that they were planning another course, and probably more wine.

A tiny glass of Vin Santo came first, Italy’s famous dessert wine, followed quickly by Sorbetto di fragole, a sorbet of strawberries served with a sprig of mint lazily leaning against the rim of the martini-style glass. It was refreshing and invigorating at the same time, and the Vin Santo was smooth and delicious, a golden nectar that coated the tongue and back palate.

And, where to now? Luca asked as I finished the repast.

"There is a wine tasting at Ristorante Firenze Enoteca tomorrow night," I replied.

"Sì, he responded, I know of it. But it is good that you come here for dinner first."

His smile reminded me of the friendly competition that the Italian restaurants in Vienna shared. They each had their followers and, despite Luca’s light disparagement, he had nothing against the Enoteca.

Yes, it is good that I have, I said, spreading my hands to indicate my presence for dinner on that evening.

No, but I mean for tomorrow! he answered. You will come back again for dinner before the tasting?

Perhaps, I said. We’ll see, but I doubted that I could manage another meal at Cantinetta on the brink of a tasting at the Enoteca.

A double espresso appeared soon afterward, and I leaned back to enjoy the aromas of roasted beans that the drink held in the cup. One sip, then another, and by the third sip the tiny cup was empty. But such is the way with espresso. It is best when hot and quick.

CHAPTER FIVE

April 15

Cascade Bar

---

My evening ended with the dinner. Although the center of Vienna here at Stephansplatz offered many bars and nightclubs, and I was tempted to find a seat in one of them, I decided instead to return to the Marriott for the night.

This morning, I drew my encrypted flash drive from the safe tucked into the cabinet in my room. It had all my files so I knew that I had not lost everything when the computer went missing; but without the computer, I couldn’t access them. I knew that I couldn’t put the device into a hotel computer; this practice was