Author and Artist
Cafe Spy
A fictional travelogue; three minute 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 reading under my bedcovers 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, I can just barely make out the haunted, bloodied rumblings of long forgotten spies. Cloaked men and women who served their countries by snooping, telling lies, murdering.
In Austria, spying is illegal only 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 discreet chalk marks on the low wall framing the café’s mahogany entryway. Chalk marks—used in the field for maintaining operational security—are indispensable espionage tradecraft, as every John le Carré reader knows. 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: 2600 coffee houses, espresso places, pastry shops, coffee bars—every one of them places to meet in secret, hidden. Coffee aromas, if I’m not on guard, could lull me into a false sense of safety.
Like East and West Berlin during the cold war, 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. Pool tables and newspaper distract any curious customers.
Nursing my cappuccino and apple strudel, I am on the lookout for any not-so-innocent patron 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 plush, 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. 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, I surreptitiously glance at the chalk marks. Still there.
Stalling, I adjust my coat, hanging back as I button it. Cars slow down as they drive by. Down the street, a small cadre of children is playing.
Each one is clutching a handful of sidewalk chalk.
