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exactly have you come back?”
    Richard and I had worked out an answer to this inevitable question. It was vague, allowing plenty of room for maneuver, and it wasn’t very convincing. It wasn’t meant to be very convincing. My sudden return to Vienna would strike everyone as curious, and we hoped that the people whom we wanted to come forward—Max’s secret contacts—would see through my lame story and guess the real reason for my presence here.
    I felt wretched about having to lie to Steve, and I stammered in the telling.
    “It’s a bit difficult to explain why I’ve come back. I was still groggy when I left Austria, and somehow I felt that I’d not said good-bye to it properly. This had been my home, and I’d seemed to fit in so naturally.” There was a sob in my voice that wasn’t acted at all. “I just had to see Vienna again, Steve, and my friends, to come to terms with myself. Does that make sense, or are you thinking I’m quite mad?”
    “I’d never think anything like that about you, Jessica,” he said seriously, but his eyes were deeply troubled.
    We were actually in the traffic-thick streets of the city before he said with a quick laugh, “I’ve not asked you where you’re staying. I suppose you’ve booked in somewhere?”
    ‘“Yes. The Mahlerhof. It’s a smallish place over in the Josefstadt district.”
    He thought for a moment. “Oh, yes, I know.”
    We drove on through the very center of Vienna, bringing memories crowding in and jerking at my heart, some almost too poignant to bear. Passing round the Opera House, my eyes were not for that splendid building but for Sachers Hotel behind it, where every month—except an unexplained once when Max seemed not to remember—we had celebrated the “anniversary” of our wedding. A super-deluxe evening out, he’d said, laughing deep into my eyes the way he sometimes did, for a super-deluxe girl.
    A minute later we had reached the Michaelerplatz, and as Steve swung around with the flow of traffic I glimpsed the apartment block in the Kohlmarkt where Max and I had lived. That luxurious up-to-the-minute service flat of ours—who was living there now? I steeled myself against tears, feeling fragile, brittle. Steve understood and didn’t try to talk.
    The afternoon sunshine scarcely reached down into Naglergasse, a narrow cobbled street lined solidly with tall and huddled buildings. We drew up outside the hotel, and Steve went to unload the luggage from the trunk. A porter ambled out to lend a hand. I glanced up at the unimpressive facade and wondered how long I’d be here.
    Some twenty yards back, another car, a gray Volkswagen, had pulled up to the curb. Idly, I noticed that nobody got out. Then the man behind the wheel lit a cigarette, and in the brief flicker of the match I saw his face quite clearly.
    He seemed oddly familiar, but recognition skipped me for a second or two. As I racked my memory, the vague impression of familiarity hardened. I had seen him before—only today. This was the bland executive type who had traveled in the same plane from London.
    Though he must have realized that I was staring at him, he took no notice, sitting there in the car calmly smoking. He looked so much a part of the everyday scene that I couldn’t think he was dangerous—and yet ... I didn’t believe in coincidence anymore.
    Was this the other side, the enemy, on to me already?
    Or was he one of Richard’s men, detailed to keep a benevolent eye on me? This idea seemed the more likely, on reflection, because he was making no effort at all to keep out of sight.
    No doubt I looked a bit lost, standing on the narrow pavement. Steve said reassuringly, “I’ll just come in with you and make sure there’s been no slip-up with your reservation. Then I’ll have to get going. I’ve a few things to clear up at the office.”
    The office in the Stubenring! Steve was in charge of it now.
    The desk clerk was courteous. Knowing I was from England, he kept his