the shell and twist it off so he could get to the egg inside.
We’re sitting at a coveted window table in the Café Schwarzenberg, one of the first true Viennese coffeehouses, which was built in 1861. We missed our connecting flight from Zurich to Vienna, which precipitated a four-hour delay whereby we had to hang out in the airport, only to learn when we arrived at the Grand Hotel Wein early this morning that our room wasn’t ready. Apparently some Arab sheik was also staying at the hotel and our room had been mistakenly given to one of his security detail. We were assured they would ready another room for us immediately and suggested we have some breakfast at Café Schwarzenberg, which was just down the block off the Kärntner Ring. I was skeptical about the sheik story, but just as we were making our way out the front double doors, we were astounded to see about twenty reporters spring up from chairs all around the lobby and scurry toward the bank of elevators. Sure enough, a man dressed in full Lawrence of Arabia style stepped out surrounded by five bodyguards dressed in black suits, black sunglasses, and wire mics in their ears. They pushed their way through the crowd and Beck took my elbow, pulling me backward to give them passage. The sheik walked right out the door and into an awaiting nondescript black car, with two identical cars behind that carried his bodyguards.
With a sharp whack against my egg, which causes a piece of shell to shoot across the table, I blow off the top of my egg, causing yellow yolk to leak all over the place. I give a disgruntled sigh as Beck laughs at me and push the egg cup away. Instead, I pull a croissant off the side plate and break off a piece.
And oh God . . . I’m not sure anything more delicious has ever been in my mouth. I stifle a moan and put a larger piece between my lips before chewing on it slowly so I can savor.
“What do you think we should do today?” Beck asks as he takes the tiny egg spoon and pulls out some of the white flesh covered in warm yolk from the inside of the shell.
“I’m tired as hell,” I say after swallowing, and then punctuate it with a yawn. “But I’m excited to get out and explore. Maybe just walk around the city a bit. Nap in the afternoon so we can get our inner clocks adjusted.”
“We should definitely take it easy today,” Beck says with a nod, and takes another perfect scoop of egg from his waitress-cracked shell. “You have us booked solid with stuff over the next four days, so this might be our only day to relax.”
It’s true. I picked up a guidebook about Vienna in the San Francisco airport and I’m trying to pack in as much sightseeing as I can. We’re going to tour the Hofburg and Schönbrunn imperial palaces; watch the world-renowned Lipizzan horses perform at the Spanische Hofreitschule Winter Riding School; and take in a performance at the famous Vienna State Opera. We’ve got the concierge trying to get us tickets to tomorrow night’s performance of the Vienna Boys Choir performing at Hofburg Chapel in the Imperial Palace, and I plan to gorge myself on stunning architecture wherever we walk, Wiener schnitzel, and Viennese coffee in between. Because this coffee—I put my croissant down in favor of a sip of the creamy, sweet goodness—is fucking phenomenal. I could totally drink this in place of tea if I could figure out how to make it when we get back home.
“Thank you for doing this,” Beck says as he puts his egg spoon down and picks up his coffee. He went with regular black.
I smile at him over the edge of my cup. “Like it was so hard to accept an offer to jet off to Europe with you.”
“You had school obligations,” he points out.
“Still have them when I go back,” I say matter-of-factly. “But you were right . . . you needed a break from the craziness that I laid on your doorstep.”
“You needed a break too, Sela. We’ve got to tread carefully when we go after JT, so we need our wits about us.”
“You think Dennis will find something?” I ask before taking another sip. Beck had filled me in on their meeting and right now he was supposedly digging into JT’s life.