The Keeper of Hands (17 page)

Werthen’s head was beginning to spin with the possibilities.

Then after a pause, ‘I do not understand Frau Mutzenbacher’s reaction to this latest outrage. One would think she would redouble her efforts to find the murderer, having lost two such close . . . friends.’

‘That is something we shall ascertain,’ said Gross. ‘All in good time. It does, however, present a certain difficulty.’

Werthen shrugged at him. ‘What?’

‘Well, we have no client. Ergo, we have no reason to investigate the deaths of the two young women.’

‘I have no client, Gross. You, on the other hand, are the eminent criminologist out to aid and abet the constabulary in their investigations.’

It was said in levity, but Werthen meant it. ‘We will not give up on this, Gross. Not until justice is done.’

Leaving the Ministry of War that evening, Captain Forstl exited the Hofburg through the Michaeler Tor and strolled along the fashionable Kohlmarkt. He had changed into a civilian suit that he kept at his office: gray serge with the barest hint of stripe. He did not want to attract attention with his green General Staff tunic.

Forstl stopped in front of Rozet’s, the jewellers, seemingly to look at their window display. It was said that the Emperor himself purchased his presents here for Katherina Schratt. Die Schratt, as the Viennese affectionately called her, was the Burgtheater actress who played the role of surrogate wife to Franz Josef both before and after the assassination of his wife, the Empress Elisabeth. Peering in the window, Captain Forstl examined a pearl-encrusted pendant in the shape of a miniature doorway flanked by classical columns in gold and surmounted by a design like a fanlight made of mother of pearl. He momentarily fantasized about buying it for his mother. She had never had a piece of jewelry apart from her silver wedding band. And wouldn’t that make the others in Lemberg talk, gossiping about how well Adelbert had done for himself?

Of course, the last thing Captain Forstl needed or wanted was people gossiping about how successful and wealthy he must be. Nor had he any real intention of buying such a bauble for his mother. The gesture would be wasted on her.

In fact, he was not interested in jewelry at all, but was more conscious of the reflections he could see in the window of others on the street who had stopped to gaze into the windows of the fashionable shops. He did not want anybody following him this evening.

Captain Forstl had trained himself well in the covert techniques of tradecraft. He lingered in front of Rozet’s a moment longer, and then made his way along the Kohlmarkt to its intersection with Graben. Here it was all bustle and activity, with fiakers carrying passengers, the carriage tops down in the mild evening air, the horses’ hooves clopping against the cobbles. Shops were closing and people were heading home or to their favorite café or gasthaus. Handsome women in full-skirted silk dresses carried parasols, though the sun was already slowly setting. Some few younger women wore less formal clothing, dresses that seemed to cling to their bodies. A few of the men on the sidewalks wore boaters, though it was still a month until summer. Forstl wore a more conservative bowler. There was the smell of horse dung, coffee and perfume all mixed together on the Graben: a heady mixture that for Captain Forstl never failed to evoke the metropolis.

Graben soon intersected with Kaertnerstrasse, where he turned right, lingering for a moment in front of Lobmeyr’s to inspect the crystal and check once again for any followers. Then he made his way through a warren of small First District lanes, ducking into two different churches and quickly back out again by the same entrance, before he finally emerged on to the broad Ringstrasse at Park Ring. He crossed the thoroughfare and went into the Stadtpark, past the large pond and on to the quiet area around the Schubert Memorial where the meeting was scheduled.

Much simpler than their initial meeting. Then Forstl had been led a merry chase up and down the Vienna Woods at Mödling, following the hand-drawn map of an anonymous correspondent who had sent Forstl a letter threatening to expose him for certain irregularities. And those he had to keep secret at all costs.

That day had been foggy, and Schmidt had appeared suddenly out of the mist as if a phantom materializing in front of Forstl’s very eyes. One moment Forstl was alone in the woods, the next he was joined by a specter.

The anonymous letter-writer called himself Schmidt, and spoke to him in German, though Forstl could hear what he thought was a Polish or Baltic accent. A small, compact man with a physiognomy and face that were nondescript, Schmidt could easily blend into any background, any surroundings, and not register in the mind of others.

That was a gift, and Forstl recognized it at once as one of the hallmarks of a true agent. Schmidt was also obviously a master of tradecraft, for he had planned that first meeting perfectly. On the high ground in the Vienna Woods, he could easily follow Forstl’s progress to the meeting point, ensuring that he was not being followed and had not brought unwelcome accomplices.

At that first meeting Schmidt, or whatever his real name was, had been brutally blunt: he had proof of Forstl’s secret activities. He also knew that Forstl was living far beyond his means and had run up ruinous debts. Unless Forstl cooperated, he would send such evidence to Forstl’s superior, von Krahlich, at the Bureau. Cooperation in this case meant obtaining the plans for three Austrian fortresses in Galicia: Cracow, Halicz and Zalesczyki. In return, Schmidt’s employers would be happy to remain silent about certain facts and also to begin paying off his debts.

‘And just who are your employers?’ Forstl had asked.

‘I think you know,’ Schmidt said.

‘The Russians?’

‘Naturally.’

‘I could make it worth your while to turn that evidence over to me.’

At which point Schmidt emitted a mirthless laugh. ‘Captain Forstl, I hope you do not play cards. You could never run an effective bluff. First, I know the miserable state of your finances. And secondly, I am a professional. As such, I would never be stupid enough to double-cross my employers. I want to live to enjoy my retirement.’

That had been five months ago, not long after Forstl’s arrival at the General Staff. It had been easy enough to secure the designs for the fortresses, but that, of course had not been the end of it. Rather, it was only the beginning. For then Schmidt had announced the long-term plans of his employers: they would help to build Forstl’s career by feeding him low-level Russian spies in Austria that he could capture and prosecute, making him the
wunderkind
of Austrian counter-intelligence. He would become their agent in place.

These recollections were interrupted by a voice from behind him.

‘You’re sure you weren’t followed?’

Forstl swung round to find that Schmidt had, once again, appeared seemingly out of nowhere.

‘Jesus! You don’t have to sneak up like that.’

‘Let’s walk. Did you have your meeting?’

Forstl could not help himself; he smiled at the thought of the bombshells he had dropped that afternoon. One of the sacrificial lambs the Russians had supplied was a member of the Austrian Foreign Office who had outlived his usefulness. Mathias Kohl had been in the employ of Russian Espionage Center West, Warsaw, for the past eight years. The Russians cashed in their chips with him, looking for a better man on the inside. A long money trail connected Kohl to his Russian paymasters.

The other, Major Hugo Tallenberg, was a retired Army Officer from the War Ministry. He had never been in the employ of the Russians, but because of his access to War Ministry documents he had been selected by the Russians to take the blame for stealing the plans for the fortresses of Cracow, Halicz, and Zalesczyki.

Colonel von Krahlich’s jaw had dropped when he began going through the dossiers on those two men. The Kohl dossier was sure to put the Foreign Office in disrepute, while Tallenberg, though a former member of the War Ministry, was not connected to the Intelligence Bureau of the General Staff. Thus both cases were guaranteed to raise the profile not only of the Bureau, but also of Forstl.

‘I had the meeting.’ He quickly told Schmidt of von Krahlich’s initial reluctance to believe the documents before him, and then his gradual acceptance and understanding of what a coup this could mean for the Bureau.

‘He will proceed against them?’ Schmidt asked.

‘He turned the dossiers over to the State Police and the Ministry of Justice late this afternoon.’

‘Excellent. You should be well on your way to promotion. Herr Major would sound well, no?’

Forstl again found himself smiling as he walked along the pathways of the park.

‘Yes,’ he said.

‘And on that other front,’ Schmidt continued, ‘there will be no fallout. You will, however, in future, seek guidance before striking out on your own like that. Agreed?’

Schmidt reached into his jacket pocket and took out a small leather cigar case. He handed it to Forstl, who shook his head.

‘Take it. Add it to your collection. And learn from it.’

Forstl took the case and thrust it into the breast pocket of his jacket. He fervently wished at that moment that he could kill Schmidt. He knew that would not rid him of his problems – there would only be another Schmidt to take his place – but it would feel so good. It was his, Forstl’s, personal initiative on ‘that other front’ that had given the Russians the idea of sacrificing agents in the first place. How was he to know that his agent in place would grow weary of her duties?

‘Agreed?’ Schmidt said again.

‘Yes, yes, of course.’

‘Work together and we all prosper,’ Schmidt said as they came to a fork in the path.

Forstl said nothing.

‘And now for your next assignment.’

‘Shouldn’t we proceed more slowly? Wait for the conviction of Kohl and Tallenberg?’

Schmidt ignored this. ‘They want the mobilization plan for the Imperial and Royal armies in case of war with Russia. You have two weeks. I will be in touch about where to meet.’

Schmidt took the left fork, towards the Ring; Captain Forstl went along the right fork, curling back into the park. The cigar case felt as if it was burning his chest. He feared what was inside it. He should throw it away in the nearest receptacle.

But that was not good tradecraft. Perhaps it would be found; perhaps the purchase of it could be traced to Schmidt.

Finally, reaching a deserted stretch of pathway, he could no longer resist. He pulled the cigar case out of his pocket, took a deep breath and slowly removed the top half of the case. There was nothing to be seen at first; it was empty, a mere bluff on Schmidt’s part. But then he saw the white half moon of the tip of a fingernail and felt the bile rise in his throat. He could not help himself: he tipped the case until the entire finger was visible. The slender little finger – of a woman, obviously – cut off precisely at the bottom joint.

He wanted to scream, but stifled the sound in his throat. How had it all come to this?

But Forstl felt a
frisson
of delight, as well. A sly feeling of power: that he could make Schmidt keep such a perverse tally. No, he would not dispose of the finger. He would, as advised, add it to the other present from Schmidt. His little collection.

I
t was Saturday and, cases or no, Werthen was determined to spend time with his family at his country home in Laab im Walde.

The morning dawned with clear skies, and the smell of fresh earth coming through the open bedroom window. Werthen got up early, leaving Berthe and Frieda to sleep in. Donning his lederhosen and a linen shirt, he took a walk around what locals referred to as ‘the farm’. The rye grass that Stein – his father’s steward at Hohelände – had planted several weeks earlier was shooting up through the black soil: eager green spears of life so fragile-looking yet so hardy. The sight of the grass growing filled him with a sudden pride in his property.

Perhaps a lawn tennis court would not be such a bad idea after all, he thought. Perhaps his parents building nearby would also be less than the disaster he feared.

The warm sun was making an optimist of him. He filled his lungs with morning air, and walked back to the house to prepare breakfast. He was becoming a dab hand in the kitchen with these weekends spent away from the ministrations of Frau Blatschky. A five-minute egg was his specialty; and coffee that was surprisingly drinkable.

Fresh
Semmeln
were waiting, nestled in a gingham napkin in a basket on the doorstep as he came back to the house. He put his hand to the crusts: they were still warm. The local gasthaus at the crossroads delivered the breakfast rolls each morning they were in occupancy.

Life was good, he thought, as he picked up the basket and went inside.

For the next ten minutes he occupied himself so thoroughly with breakfast preparations that he was quite unaware of the arrival of visitors, until an insistent knocking at the kitchen door brought him out of his reverie. He wiped his hands on the apron he loved to wear, a gift from Berthe purchased from the kitchen of the Hotel Imperial.

He opened the door and there stood Gross, cheeks flushed red and bowler in hand. His balding pate glistened in the morning sun.

Gross’s discerning eyes went from the lederhosen to the apron, and a wry smile appeared.

‘Sorry to interrupt this lovely domestic scene.’

‘Good morning to you, too, Gross. What brings you to the countryside? I thought you were allergic to fresh air.’

‘Invite me in, Werthen,’ he replied. ‘I need a cup of coffee.’

Over Gross’s shoulder Werthen could see a
pferdelose Kutsche
, horseless carriage, chuffing exhaust in the early morning air.

‘Nor did I think you were a fan of modern transport.’

‘Coffee, Werthen, please. I will explain.’

They sat at the pine table, both sipping at the coffee. Gross, learning that Werthen had brewed it, eyed it with suspicion, but was soon won over.

‘I have a feeling you are going to ruin my weekend,’ Werthen finally said.