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The Twisted Biography of the author

ANTON VON STEFAN

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Part nineteen  - a ghost from the author's past, arises?

In early June of 2013, Anton Von Stefan was last seen in the mountains surrounding Whistler, then his ghostly image faded into the twilight which often surrounds him.  Had he come upon some nefarious end?  Would his works never be published?  These thoughts poured through my mind, yet I had noticed that more than 200 hundred pages, comprising a good part of his first book, had vanished much like the author had.  This was a good lead.

 As I had found him in Montenegro a year ago when he last disappeared, I checked this avenue first.  Here, I was partially successful.  There was a booking in his name to the same accommodations, the Hotel ‘Aleksandar’, in Budva as there had been in the previous year.  A quick search of travel documents also showed a flight into Austria and one more booked into Dubrovnik in late July.  His ghost had indeed wandered across theAtlantic once more.  Yet, this routine search for a certain ANTON VON STEFAN also found some rather troubling information, so weird in its content, that I thought it best to print it here as it was sent, without any interference by me.  Thus, by way of my request for information, the following strange account appeared upon my search screen:

 Interpol Information / Request #072013253-ZMOSK11488

Subject: Anton_Von_Stefan

Intercept Media: hotmail_electronic_mail

 “Most of you are probably wondering why I have said little of my current travels in and around Vienna.  You see, I had a rather interesting call on my handy (cell phone) yesterday.  I was standing before the Albertina, just across from the opera hall in the city’s centre when my newly issued, unlisted, black phone rang.  It was a call from a college I had first met 33 years ago.  For this writing, I shall call him ‘Hansi’.

 All of you will recall the rather tumultuous times in 1989 through to 1991, a time when the iron curtain began to unravel and finally fell apart completely.  Yet, to some of us, it was a time of greater change than to others.  Bond, and all of the other double ‘O’ members of MI6 where thrown into a state of inactivity, much as members of the KGB were and many faced a rather bleak future.  Unemployment was unthinkable, so most opted for retirement.  That is all I can really say without transgressing an oath which I have taken to serve Her Majesty and Her empire.  I believe my brother took a similar one in his own time.

 Some of you may recall my restless travels, which began in 1980, into the previously known  ‘Eastern Zone’.  The ones I wish to mention here, in particular, are my journeys into the former German Democratic Republic, Hungary, and Yugoslavia.  The other sojourns will remain un-named.  Most of these entrances into the Soviet realm were conducted through Berlin, though not through ‘Check Point Charlie’.  Those crossings are fodder for the film industry and were for ‘official’ visits only, as they were fully ‘visible’ to the Soviet authorities.  Those in the active, ‘public service’, usually used the rather mundane and delapitated public transit system.  Much more discrete, they often would enter via the underground subway system, exiting at Alexander Platz or other stations, as directed.  Vienna was also a good point of entring Hungary through the still functioning Raaberbahn, a private rail consortium which took one directly into Sopron, Hungary, a ‘softer’ communist nation.  Spielfeld and Maribor were the common entry points from Austria to Yugoslavia in the south.

 Thus, as the quiet voice on the phone spoke, and I immediately recognized the person calling, I was quite intrigued.  If I wished to enter Hungary that day, I was told that I was to go to a certain underground station before 2 p.m.  Instructions on a pick-up would be passed to me when needed, then the line went silent.

 I found a leisurely outdoor restaurant on Mariahilfer Strasse, in Vienna’s 7^th District and sat down.  I had just under two hours time to make a decision to become active or remain in ‘rente’.  As I pondered this dilemma, a note was passed to me by the waitress of this Sushi restaurant, written on the back of a receipt.  I had also previously noticed the headline to one of Vienna’s daily papers which read in part: “Snowden Welcome To Austria for 90 Days - Green Party Candidate”  Yes, Austrian elections were approaching and Snowden, the American fugitive, was still in Moscow.

 These two small bits of information quickly pulled me into line; and, shortly, I stepped onto the U3, destination: Stefan’s Platz, Vienna.  There, I transferred to the U1 and exited at the second last station on this route, as I had been directed.  Leaving the station, I crossed the street.  My phone rang almost immediately, and I was directed to stand on a precise corner and wait for a car.  Within 2 minutes of that call, as the light turned red for the road I straddled, a black , shinny, brand new, four door Ibiza, sagging slightly by the weight it must have carried, pulled up, the rear door swung open, and I stepped in without a question.

 A very fit, middle-aged woman with dyed, red-brown hair drove, while a silver haired man in the front passenger seat began to verbally pass over all the information they thought I might find useful over the next few hours of the operation. 

 Our driver drove with precision, in the fashion I had long become used to; urgency, purpose, yet with a style that would look like we were on a simple outing in the countryside.  Taking the usual precautions of turning down streets that ended or were impassible, yet making the appearance to an onlooker to be a simple error in navigation by a ‘tourist’, we insured that we were not being followed.  Once the point of entry was overcome, and we believed we were ‘clean’, we drove to several historical sites, exiting the vehicle each time with cameras blazing.  Then, walking carefully around the area, we kept a keen eye out for the obvious.

 After several more stops, taking in parts of the old Iron Curtain at Sopronköhida (who still recalls that Pan-European Picnic?) and its demise, we came to one of ‘Hansi’s’ old ‘safe houses’.  It had been a well-run establishment that doubled as an established restaurant and had been visited many times during the Soviet occupation by both the driver and ‘Hansi’.  Today, the official cover for the premises was hosting one of Hungary’s large wedding parties.  Almost 200 guests had been invited for that reception. 

 Although other visitors were being turned away as a result of this ‘private’ function, we were brought through the festival hall and taken to a side terrace where a single table had already been set for three people, the precise number in our party.  The meal, as with most in Hungary, was extremely good and plentiful.  The music from the reception was lively and drifted out the open door, adding a rather lovely ambience to our meal.  I found the ploy of the wedding party to be a rather interesting diversion to our cladestine arrival.  However, once I had returned to Vienna and went out to see an older ‘friend’ I knew from the past, this woman from Geneva knew of that wedding first hand, which rendered a new meaning to ‘Hansi’s’ cover story and the eventual search of our vehicle upon our return.

 From the restaurant, and presumably before we were to be granted the final signal to continue to our target (and to insure we would arrive at our intended location well after the sun had set), the driver left the restaurant and drove to one of Hungary’s Esterhazy holdings.  Here, as we sped past the wrought iron gates of its entrance, the silver-haired passenger asked a particular question of me.  As I knew the correct answer to the phrase asked, they seemed assured that they had indeed picked up the right person in Vienna.  In other words, I had just been tested as to my identity.  As they had to presumabley make contact with their Hungarian counterparts, assuring them of my ‘bona fida’ personality, and ask for permission to drive to the intended target, I was asked to leave the vehicle forthwith.  I was instructed to tour the Esterhazy Schloss for several minutes before returning to their parked vehicle.  I did as I was asked.

 This place in Fertöd, Hungary was the residence of the ruling Esterhazy family and is a mini replication of the Austrian Emperor’s summer palace in Vienna, Schönbrunn.  I took a few photographs simply to establish my identity as a tourist, then I returned to the parking area.

 Stepping back into the shining, brand-new Ibiza, we drove to a remarkable location to view the Hungarian sunset before our driver shifted gears and raced into the twilight.  “It would take several more hours”, I was told.

 Travelling over the badly paved rural roads with breakneck speed (most rural roads have limits of 80 kmph or more in Europe), yet generally remaining within the allowed limits, we hurtled through the night, our destination still unknown to me.  After some time of enduring the discomfort the rough roads produced, we entered yet another quaint, but darkened, village (electricity is now available but is often too costly for most locals and their small towns, so there is little to no light visible to the outside world, an illumination which would indicate anyone was still up, shortly after nightfall sets in on any given evening). 

 Arriving at a rather well-kept, two story stone building, surrounded by a sizable yard which contained a ramshackle shed and an enormous vegetable garden, the driver pulled to the side of the road, almost putting the car into the ditch, engaged the emergency break, and immediately shut off the motor.  Silence.  Darkness.

 No bell needed to be rung, as in the opaque world we were in a person within the shadows was quietly waiting our expected arrival.  With few words spoken, the trunk of the car was opened and four sombre people quickly took the many taped boxes and fully loaded handbags out of the rear storage area.  As well, the goods which had been similarly packed and which had filled the interior of the car were removed.  The items inside the passenger compartment of the vehicle had been placed in such a way, before I had been picked up, that they were not apparent to a person casually viewing the car from the outside.  The whole transfer was completed in under two minutes, whereupon we were shuffled into the house very quickly.  Once the door was shut, the lights in the hall were turned on, and we entered a small kitchen which was warm, cosy, contained a nook and had all of its windows shuttered.  To the outside world, we did not exist.

 With the usual protocol in these operations, introductions were curt and not entirely necessary, as the two parties obviously knew each other by sight; and, often, the less one knows of the other, the better the final outcome may be.  Happily, the Hungarian tradition to some local, but very good spirits was still part of the ritual, and a fine bottle of schnaps soon appeared and hit the table.  Small talk complete, my silver haired accomplice was fed a large bowl of local soup while we all partook of the brandy and of some home-made berry pastries.  The chatter ended as we all knew the cue to leave had indeed passed, and we left as silently as we came, the hall light having been turned off before the door to the outside was opened.

 Once more, we took several unscheduled turns, eventually actually returning to the house we had just left.  No unexpected automobiles were visible and a sigh of relief was heard from the front seat of our car.  We did not stop as we were only ‘viewing’ the residence as a precaution to see if it was being raided and if our cover was still sound.  Insuring that we were not being followed upon our departure, we left Hungary by a secondary road and entering Slovakia.  We briefly skirted the city of Bratislava, before turning west.  Our circuitous route, by way of an apparent necessity, did not include any section of the old East European Autobahn, taking us along the small winding local roads instead.  Eventually, we retuned to the country were we had started from.  In Austria, however, we were stopped by the boarder police, an indication that not all was on solid footing.  It was possible that someone else knew of our existence (see note above on the woman from Geneva). 

 Seven or eight uniformed personnel, with at least four cars on the side of the road, two with their engines idling, were on location.  However, as our vehicle was now empty, save for the passengers inside, a simple paper check along with a simultaneously conducted flashlight search, which entailed two officers slowly walking around the automobile with its trunk open, a manouver reminiscent of the Soviet Era, proved we were who we said we were and that no other, hidden passenger was returning with us.  Within minutes we were underway once more.  We arrived in Vienna just before 1 a.m. this morning without further incident.”

 Intercept Date: 07_03_2013

Intercept Agent: XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 The agent’s identification was obviouly blanked out on the above document.

It is of interest to note that this ‘journey’ into the former Soviet Republic of Hungary occurred on July the 2^nd, 2013, the precise night that the Bolivian President’s plane, travelling from Moscow to South America, was denied French and Portuguese airspace and was forced to land in Vienna.   The following day, Michael Spinelegger, Austria’s Foreign Minister at that time made the following statement: “ Our Airport staff have checked it over (the plane) and can assure you that no one is on board who is not a Bolivian Citizen” and called the search ‘voluntary’.

 David Choquehuanca, Bolivia’s Foreign Minister, issued the following statement from La Paz,Bolivia: “We do not know who invented this lie,” as Evo Morales, Bolivia’s President had told reporters earlier, “no Austrians ever boarded the plane.” 

 We can only ‘assume’ that US Intelligence did not know the precise location of Edward Snowden, a US fugitive, on that memorable night.  The White House, the CIA and State Department all had no comment on the incident at that time.

 Truly, I, ANTON VON STEFAN’s humble biographer, do not know what to make of it all.  Was this e-mail actually written by the author?  Is there a past to this writer that I am not aware of?  Surely, as his ‘Twisted Biographer’, I should have known something of what is implied in this bizarre release of information by Interpol; yet, I confess, I am completely in the dark.  However, from this curious note derived from a very secure ‘source’, it seems that our author has been in Austria, Hungary and Slovakia since departing from Canada and is working.  I will use whatever means are necessary to establish the ‘ON WHAT’ to that word ‘working’, an enlightenment which you will, hopefuly, be able to read in the next segment of his tumultuous journey, a path that has direct implications to his Gothic Horror stories, his vivid imagination, and his haunting, written works.

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