The last passport

The man was already dead when he received the telephone call.

At 2:17 in the morning, the phone on the bedside table rang once, stopped, and then rang again.

Daniel Voss opened his eyes.

He did not move immediately.

For twenty years he had learned that the first seconds after waking were sometimes more important than the next twenty years of one's life.

He looked at the screen.

No number.

Only one word:

VIENNA.

Daniel sat up.

The phone rang again.

He answered.

“Voss.”

For several seconds there was silence.

Then a man's voice said quietly:

“Do you remember the name Viktor Hale?”

Daniel's face changed.

Nobody had mentioned that name to him for eleven years.

“Who are you?”

“Someone who knows what happened in Prague.”

Daniel stood beside the window.

Outside, London was sleeping under a cold September rain.

“Viktor Hale is dead.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you calling me?”

“Because he has just killed a man in Vienna.”

The line went dead.

Daniel remained motionless.

He looked at the rain running down the glass.

Then he opened the drawer beside his bed and took out an old photograph.

Three men stood in the picture.

Daniel.

Viktor Hale.

And a third man whose face had been crossed out with a black pen.

On the back of the photograph there were only four words:

Trust nobody after midnight.

Daniel turned the photograph over.

For the first time in eleven years, he wondered whether Viktor Hale had ever really died.

At 6:40 the next morning, an encrypted message arrived.

There was no greeting.

No explanation.

Only a photograph of a dead businessman lying on a hotel floor in Vienna.

Daniel studied the picture carefully.

The victim's name was Emil Karsten, a European financier whose companies operated in six countries.

There was blood beneath his head.

A pistol lay beside his right hand.

Everything suggested suicide.

Everything except the left hand.

Daniel enlarged the photograph.

Between the dead man's fingers was something almost invisible.

A small piece of blue paper.

Daniel stared at it.

He knew that color.

It had once been used by an intelligence service that officially did not exist.

He whispered:

“Viktor…”

Then his phone rang.

This time the caller gave his name.

“Mr. Voss, you should leave London immediately.”

“Who is speaking?”

“You have six hours.”

“Six hours for what?”

“To decide whether you want to know the truth.”

The connection ended.

Daniel looked again at the photograph.

Then he noticed something that nobody else had seen.

On the hotel wall behind the dead man was a clock.

It showed 11:43.

But the police report stated that Karsten had died at 10:15.

Daniel smiled without humour.

A false time.

A false suicide.

And possibly a dead man who had never been dead at all.

He packed one suitcase.

Before leaving the apartment, he returned to the old photograph.

For a moment he considered burning it.

Instead, he put it into his passport.

He knew now where he had to go.

Vienna.

And somewhere in that city, a man officially dead for eleven years was waiting for him.