Not the band

Nobody chased me. Nobody tailed me. Nobody gave me a second glance.

I'm going to drive myself nuts, I told myself. It was rather confusing though; I'd found out that the whole time I thought people were after me, I was just being paranoid. But people were after me, just different people. Is it still paranoia if there really are out to get you?

I shrugged it off again. I had to stop thinking about it. I just kept walking down the narrow Vienna streets, my hands tucked in my jacket pockets to keep warm. An hour later I was back in my hotel room,dorking around on the internet . All the things I should have been thinking about kept banging on the walls of my mind, but I kept pushing it back. This made it hard to relax, but kept me from thinking myself into a fit. Being cooped up in the hotel room was starting to make me feel a bit bonkers, and time just dragged on. I had to keep myself busy, I decided, so I picked up the phone and dialed the number on the newspaper ad offering Austriansparbuch accounts.

After two rings, someone answered speaking in German. I asked if the man spoke English, he said yes.

"I'm interested in a sparbuch account," I said.
"Yes," he said in the thickest accent I'd heard since I got here, "we have available."
"And they're with Erste Bank?"
"Yes, we have them from many banks but Erste is the best common."
"They come with balances already?"
"Ehh.. balance, yes. They have 100 Euro balance in account."
"How much for the account?"
"They are 400 Euro, but have the 100 in bank already so 300 actually price."
"And the accounts, they're completely anonymous?"
"Yes. Private account, no name or addresses. Best kinds. You want through mail or pick up?"
"Are you downtown? I could meet you somewhere."
"I have someone downtown, where are you now?"

I gave him the crossroads nearest the hotel, and he told me of a cafe a few blocks away and said someone would meet me in two hours. I didn't have anything to do besides sitting and stewing over the complicated nature of my life, so I grabbed the novel I hadn't finished and walked to the cafe.

Starbucks it wasn't. Most people were drinking espresso from tiny little cups, something so pretentious that even Americans can't stand. The cafe itself was small, very old looking but decorated nicely with a long singular wooden bench wrapping around the right wall to the back, stuffed with pillows and cushions and tables tucked up against them every few feet. At the counter I tried to cut through the language barrier and get myself a latte, I ended up with something that seemed like a latte but was more bitter than I expected. I settled in at a table in the back and started to read my book.

About an hour later a man came in that looked like what the man on the phone had described, young, dark hair, dark coat. He'd warned me also that he didn't speak English. I waved at the man and he walked over. He had a Manila envelope in his hand, which he held up and said, "Euros?"

I pulled the money from my pocket and set it on the table. He sat down and started counting after handing me the envelope. In it were as a small folding booklet that reminded me of a passport, but it had the same dimensions as a credit card and a muted yellow color. The back cover of the booklet had a magnetic stripe, which meant that you probably stuck the whole thing into an ATM just like a debit card; which meant that it was probably the sparbuch itself. Inside the booklet were a few pages that looked like rules or laws, written in German, and the account number was printed at the bottom. After that were a few blank pages that looked to be meant to use as a ledger. Also in the envelope was a small piece of paper that said "SECURE CODE" and a six-digit number. Finally was a full-page document, an official-looking account summary printed and sealed by the Erste Bank. It listed the account number, the same number printed inside the sparbuch, and showed a few random transactions dated over 10 years prior, then finally a recent deposit that brought the balance to 100 Euros exactly. I looked the page over, it was printed on a laser printer on heavy stock paper with a watermark of the bank's logo. If it was fake, it was worth the 400 Euros just for the authenticity.

He said something that might pass as, "All good?" I nodded, he smiled politely and left with the money.

I put the sparbuch and the sheet with the code number in my jacket pocket, folded the rest and sat it on the bench next to me, then got back to my book. I finally finished it, and had gone through three coffees and was now on to juices and sitting in silent contemplation as the sun went down.

I noticed someone standing outside the cafe door, and it took a moment for me to recognize his face. It was the guy from outside the bank earlier in the day. He was just standing there watching the door, not looking at me. It was illegal to carry a knife over three inches in Europe so I didn't have mine on me, though I didn't know my mind went right to that. A few minutes later he was joined by another man similarly dressed. He looked through the window around the cafe until his eyes landed on me. He appeared to take in a long breath, then turned back around. I kept telling myself not to be nervous, that I was probably overreacting again, but I had done all kinds of unlawful things today, crimes both white-collar and otherwise.

I downed the last of my bottle of orange juice and just watched the both of them as they stood outside, watching cars pass on the street.

Eventually they both sauntered inside the cafe, the first guy hanging around the door and the second walking straight toward me. My legs uncrossed and I pressed both feet against the floor, and the back of my mind kept focusing on the fact that I didn't have a weapon on me. The table wasn't locked down, I bet I could throw it.

As the man walked closer, I could see that he was a bit older than the first guy. He was in his forties but still fit, and wearing a short leather jacket. The panic poking at my chest eased a small amount, but the man was indeed coming for me. He had a kind of coy smile on his face, like a man playing hide and seek with a child and obviously knowing where the kid was hiding. He sat down across from me at my table, turned the chair at an angle and leaned back in in sloppy posture. I didn't say anything.

"You speak English, don't you?" he said with the same grin. His accent was light, and definitely not German. French, maybe?
I nodded. He seemed pleased.
"I thought so," he said, "My name is Thomas Pratt." He pronounced it "Toe-mahs".
I swallowed, and thought for a second about what to say. "Chris," I decided on.
His grin pulled taught for a moment, then he continued, "I'm a lead investigator with Interpol. I've been waiting to meet you for a long time, Mr. Baker."