Cafe Spy

A fictional travelogue; four minutes to read.

At the age of twelve, I read my first espionage novel. The Scarlet Pimpernel by Baroness Orczy. Sacrificing a good night’s sleep, my spycraft consisted of hiding the book under my bedcovers and reading by flashlight. It was my first, but far from my last, recorded instance of deception.

My name is Noah. I teach high school history, and any history worth a damn includes spying, treachery, betrayal.

In the shadowy world of spying, it is a faith conviction—like trusting in gravity—that our assassins are the good guys. The other side thinks the same. On any given day, both could be right—or wrong.

Walking on the cobbled streets of Vienna, my heels hard on the stones, my heartbeat thumping, I could just barely make out the haunted, bloodied rumblings of dead spies. Cloaked men and women who served their countries by snooping, telling lies and murdering.

In Austria spying is only illegal if you steal secrets from the Austrian government. That leaves the International Atomic Energy Agency, the European Organization for Security and Cooperation and 40 other targets for foreign intelligence services. Altogether, some 10,000 diplomats, officials and agents are watching each other.

Ambling on a side street towards Café Sperl’s corner location, hovering at store window reflections to check for tails, I notice two short, intentionally discrete chalk marks on the yellow concrete wall framing the café’s mahogany entryway. Chalk marks, as every John le Carré reader knows, are indispensable espionage tradecraft used for maintaining operational security. They signal the location of a dead drop.

Alert to my responsibilities, I seat myself at a black and white marble bistro table inside Café Sperl, a 19th century Viennese coffee house. Coffee is a thing in Vienna: 530 coffee houses, 650 coffee restaurants, 1060 espresso places, 250 coffee pastry shops, 120 coffee bars.

The café’s interior is split into two zones. One part contains quiet recreations: an old pool table, free magazines, international newspapers. On the opposite side, businessmen, politicians, artists, lovers and spooks linger over sweet cakes and mélange coffees. A pianist plays popular show tunes. Obligingly, the music overplays electronic listening devices.

Nursing my cappuccino and apple strudel, I am on the lookout for any patron not-so-innocently leaving behind a jacket, gloves or umbrella, possibly with a coded message stuffed inside. Or maybe a folded magazine hiding a sliver of microfiche. The booths along the far wall, upholstered in red brocade, are the perfect spot for sticking a cipher under a tabletop, later to be picked up by a case officer.

Trained for my assignment from watching dozens of spy movies, I prepare for a long stake-out by ordering a second strudel. Customers come and go. The prickly feeling in my neck comes and goes with them. After my third strudel, I am beginning to attract attention. Maintaining my cover, I pay at the counter and exit.

Streetside, as surreptitiously as I can I glance at the chalk marks. Still there.

Stalling, I adjust my coat, lingering as I button it. It is only then that I spot a small cadre of children at play down the street—each one clutching a handful of colorful sidewalk chalk.

Click here for more short stories set in Austria.