“No, of course not,” he said, picking the cigarette out of his mouth. “That would be foolish. Meet me back here tomorrow afternoon at around four o’clock. And be ready to leave. Wear warm clothes. Buy some if you don’t have them. Also, between now and tomorrow I want you to have your photograph taken.” He scribbled an address on his pad, tore off a sheet of paper, and handed to me. “There’s a shop on Elisabeth Strasse, opposite the Opera House. Ask for Herr Weyer. Siegfried Weyer. He’s a friend and can be trusted absolutely. Tell him I sent you. He’ll know what needs to be done. I’ve put his phone number down there in case something happens to delay you. B26425. Keep away from the stations, telegraph offices, and the post offices. Go to the cinema. Or the theater. Somewhere dark, with lots of people. Have you much money?”

“Enough to get by, for now,” I said.

“Good. A weapon?”

I hesitated, slightly surprised to be asked such a thing by a man of God. “No.”

“It would be a shame for you to get captured now,” said Father Lajolo. “Especially now that we’re putting all the wheels in motion for you to get out of Vienna.” He opened the closet for vestments and removed the padlock from a little footlocker. Inside were several pistols. He took one out—a nice-looking Mauser—eased out the magazine with his clubby, nicotine-stained fingers, and checked that it was loaded before handing it over. “Here,” he said. “Take this one. Don’t use it unless you absolutely have to.”

“Thank you, Father,” I said.

He went to the back door of the sacristy, opened it, and stepped into a small alleyway that led down the side of the church, underneath some scaffolding. “When you come back tomorrow,” he said, “don’t go through the main church. Come down this alleyway, and then use this door. It won’t be locked. Just come inside, sit down, and wait.”

“Yes, Father.”

“Until tomorrow, then.”

THIRTY-EIGHT

THIRTY-EIGHT