CHAPTER 10: All Thumbs

STATION WAGON PROTOCOL

There are things they don’t tell you about a trip that feels dangerously close to espionage.

They don’t tell you that you might be trying to decrypt a message from a former Kazakh intelligence chief while standing in line to rent a station wagon. Or that you’ll have to choose between a comically tiny death-trap with mismatched hubcaps and a station wagon that smells like a Viennese ashtray.

Or that you’ll be yelling “LUKAS, YOU HAVE TO DRIVE!” while trying to install a secure messaging app, translate a half-Russian Facebook comment thread, and remember which email you used to verify two-factor authentication—all with one hand while the other holds your passport and a warm paper coffee cup.

But first: back up.

We had just returned to the Ruby Sofie Hotel after an exhausting march through the grounds of Schönbrunn. Too far, too hot, too much monarchy. We’d stopped at Wiener Grill Haus for lunch—meat, beer, fun with a finger puppet—and took an Uber back to the hotel because neither of us had the stamina to walk another kilometer.

But instead of heading tour rooms for respite, we headed out again on foot, this time toward the mall where the rental car agency was located. We needed a vehicle for Sunday’s journey to Hallstatt. I needed caffeine, cell reception, and a private moment with a story that was starting to tilt the Earth’s axis under my feet.

Somewhere along that walk, I checked Facebook. I’d left a comment under one of Alnur Mussayev’s reshared posts—a repost of our article. It wasn’t subtle. It was a longshot attempt to get his attention. A spark in the dark.

Then—ping.

He replied.

Then he sent another comment. And then a message.

The switch to Facebook Messenger.

And then another platform entirely. Encrypted. More secure. I won’t name it. But I’ll tell you this: I didn’t even have it installed yet. I was standing in an elevator, descending to the first floor of a mall in central Vienna, trying to remember my Apple ID password while being prompted to scan a QR code and agree to unreadable terms of service in German.

That’s when Lukas turned to me and said, “They’re asking if we want the Renault or the Peugeot.”

I blinked. Both were so small they looked like props from Mr. Bean. I said, “Do they have anything bigger?”

A shrug. A nod. A set of keys.

Enter: the station wagon.

We signed the papers. I was mid-message with Mussayev while initialing the rental contract with my off-hand. Thumbs were flying. My heart was pounding.

We walked to the garage.

“Lukas,” I said, “you’re gonna have to drive.”

“You’re on the contract.”

“Lukas. Listen to me. My hands are full of global subterfuge. I am chatting with a former KGB head. I can’t operate a station wagon right now.”

He stared at me.

“You’re always texting people,” he said.

“This is different.”

“Why?”

“Because this time, the person I’m texting may have knowledge about kompromat on the president of the United States.”

“Oh,” he said. “Fair.”

He got in. I kept texting.

I fired off questions like a lunatic. I didn’t know how long I had. Every answer felt measured. Deliberate. Like he was vetting me back.

We drove the car—he drove the car—back to the Ruby Sofie and parked in the underground garage.

That’s when we set out on foot toward Hundertwasser.

If you’ve never been, Hundertwasserhaus is like Gaudí had a one-night stand with Dr. Seuss and then tried to hide the baby in postmodern Austria. The walls are slanted. The bricks are colorful. The windows all seem to be having separate emotional breakdowns. Nothing is even. Nothing matches. Nothing agrees with gravity.

Lukas found a tiny table in the street and ordered a beer. I found a shaded spot against the wall as far from humanity as possible and continued texting like my thumbs were on fire.

Then it came:

A new message. A link. A video call.

Encrypted.

I hit “Accept.” A face. Alnur Mussayev. His translator next to him somewhere offscreen.

I couldn’t hear much. Tourists were everywhere. Glass clinking. Someone nearby yelling about gelato. I pressed one finger into my right ear and turned my good side toward the screen.

I nodded. Asked a few things. Tried not to pace. Tried not to freak out. Tried not to let my brain spiral into wondering what the fuck I had just gotten myself into.

Then, toward the end of the call, the translator spoke:

“Alnur wants to meet.”

That was it.

Monday afternoon.

They said they would send me a separate message later with the exact time and place.

The video chat ended, but our story felt like it had just begun.

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