The Keeper of Hands (19 page)

‘Of course,’ the Archduke said, seeming to find cheer now that a decision had been made. ‘That is part of why I brought you here today. You of course know that our empire is protected by two intelligence services, one military and one, shall we say, civilian.’

Werthen and Gross nodded.

‘One would hope that such services would cooperate with one another, would act in the best interests of the country. Unfortunately, that is not always the case. Petty jealousies and feuds intrude.’

‘You mean,’ Gross said, ‘there is a battle for primacy between the General Staff’s Intelligence Bureau and the Foreign Office.’

‘Precisely,’ Franz Ferdinand said. ‘Only, the Foreign Office officially has no such agency.’

‘A deadly battle?’ Werthen asked.

‘I was hoping you gentlemen could answer that question. If, as you suspect, Joachim was poisoned, then I hope you will follow all possible avenues of inquiry.’

The Archduke’s response sent a chill down Werthen’s back. It was one thing to jockey for position and pride of place, but quite another to kill a member of the opposing side and fellow countryman simply out of interagency pique. Treason might not be too harsh a word to describe such actions.

‘I shall once again provide quiet support,’ Franz Ferdinand said, nodding toward the stoically silent bodyguard, Duncan. ‘But you of course understand that such an investigation is not without risk to those asking the questions.’

Neither Werthen nor Gross spoke for a moment.

‘I would quite understand if you refused such a commission. In which case, this conversation never took place.’

‘But of course we accept—’ Gross began.

‘I need to consider this,’ Werthen said quickly, interrupting him.

‘Sensible of you, to be sure,’ Franz Ferdinand said. ‘With a child and wife, a man has responsibilities. Perhaps you wish to discuss it with Frau Meisner first. I would do the same with my wife.’

Franz Ferdinand’s knowledge of his private life did not surprise Werthen. Indeed, there was most probably a third intelligence network at work in Austria that the Archduke did not mention: his own.

‘I will have my driver return you to your respective abodes. Shall we say Monday, then? That should give you sufficient time to make an informed decision. At that point we can discuss your fee.’

‘Fine,’ Gross muttered, obviously displeased at Werthen’s delay.

‘Yes, most obliging, your Highness,’ Werthen said.

As they were about to take their leave, Franz Ferdinand fixed them again with his startlingly blue eyes.

‘As a sign of trust, I would like to pass on certain information. I am sure it will go no further.’

‘Yes?’ Werthen said.

‘It concerns your wife, Herr Advokat. It comes to my attention that she has been keeping watch on one Baron Arthur Gundaccar von Suttner.’

Werthen felt a sudden protective heat at this and blurted out, ‘And just how has this come to your attention?’

Werthen’s sharp tone made Duncan stir.

‘Do not misunderstand me, Advokat Werthen. This is not some sort of veiled threat. Rather it is offered more in the hope of reciprocity, tit for possible tat. I know what your wife and her young friend – I believe she is your legal secretary? – are doing because, as I understand it, our intelligence service is also thus engaged.’

Just as Gross had surmised, Werthen thought.

‘Baroness von Suttner is a client,’ Werthen said flatly.

Franz Ferdinand raised his eyebrows. ‘And has engaged you to investigate her husband?’

‘That is privileged information, your Highness.’

‘Werthen,’ Gross began, ‘perhaps—’

‘No, your colleague is correct, Doktor Gross. Private Inquiries is the business you are engaged in, and such inquiries should remain private.’

‘Are you warning us off von Suttner?’ Werthen said, tired now of
politesse
.

‘Not at all. I simply supply this information. You do with it as you see fit.’

‘Is Frau von Suttner such a threat to the empire?’

‘Pacifism is a powerful message. For my part, I rather like it that she organizes for peace, that there is a voice against the rush to war. But there are others who are not quite so broad-minded.’

‘Thank you for this information, your Highness. It confirms what we already suspected. You might also tell whichever intelligence
service is at work that their man needs a refresher course in tradecraft. My wife spotted him within ten minutes.’

‘What do you make of that?’ Gross said, as they climbed on to the passenger bench of the Archduke’s horseless carriage.

But Private Porsche then joined them and there was no further chance for discussion.

‘Where to first, gentlemen?’ the driver asked.

‘You had best come to the country house for the weekend,’ Werthen said. ‘We need to talk things over.’

Gross did not demur at this invitation. After stopping briefly at Gross’s hotel, where he packed a valise, Porsche drove them, mostly in silence, back to Laab im Walde.

En route, Werthen had time to mull over their meeting with Franz Ferdinand. It was apparent to Werthen that the Archduke had a special relationship with the Foreign Office, or at least with Gross’s old schoolmate, Minister Brockhurst. It was obviously Brockhurst who let Franz Ferdinand know about their investigation of von Ebersdorf’s death. But it also appeared that Brockhurst was perhaps prudishly less than forthcoming about the reason for their interest: Werthen did not think Franz Ferdinand was feigning surprise when he learned that Fräulein Mitzi was a prostitute.

‘Beautiful countryside,’ the private said once they reached the farm. ‘I intend to buy myself such a place once I have made my first million.’

Standing in the drive, Gross clucked disapprovingly as Porsche put the motorcar into gear and sped off back down the country lane.

‘Jumped-up carriage driver,’ he muttered.

‘Ambition, Gross. The mainspring of the new century. I’d put my money on that private making a million.’

Another plosive sound of disgust from Gross.

They were not able to discuss matters until Frieda had been put to sleep at eight that evening, complaining that it was still light outside and time to play. The complaints were short-lived.

Now they were gathered at the dining table.

‘Why would he tell you that?’ Berthe said, for out of all the startling information imparted by Franz Ferdinand, she had fixed on his revelation that Frau von Suttner was being watched.

‘He made it fairly clear,’ Werthen said. He poured himself a measure of slivowitz and offered the bottle to Berthe and Gross, both of whom declined. ‘It was a sort of fair exchange. He hopes we take the von Ebersdorf matter forward.’

‘Well, hadn’t you planned to anyway?’

‘On a practical level,’ Werthen said, ‘we have no reason to. After all, Frau Mutzenbacher has dispensed with our services, and the death of von Ebersdorf was important to us only as it might or might not be connected with that of Fräulein Mitzi.’ He paused, and added, ‘Also, we were unaware of certain facts before – such as the possible involvement of feuding intelligence agencies.’

‘Such an investigation can be dangerous,’ said Gross, ‘just as the Archduke implied.’

During the course of the day Gross had obviously given some thought to the matter and now saw it somewhat more from Werthen’s point of view and the need to protect his wife and child. It pleased Werthen to see his old friend taking others into consideration and he cast him a warm smile.

‘After all,’ Gross added, ‘my good lady wife, Adele, must be consulted. She relies on me. I must think of my safety as it affects her.’

Werthen’s smile disappeared. ‘How good of you, Gross,’ he said with a sarcastic edge that made Berthe raise her eyebrows.

‘Are you holding back from taking the Archduke’s commission on my account?’ asked Berthe.

‘Yes, of course I am. And Frieda’s. She hasn’t asked to be involved in such matters.’

‘So,’ Berthe said, stiffening her back, ‘if von Ebersdorf actually was poisoned and the Intelligence Bureau of the General Staff was responsible for it, they would not like people nosing around making accusations, is that the theory?’

‘In a nutshell,’ Werthen said. ‘Though we cannot be sure it was the Intelligence Bureau at work.’

‘It stands to reason,’ she said. ‘If there are internecine battles, that means the Foreign Office is pitted against the General Staff. Von Ebersdorf worked for the Foreign Office, ergo—’

‘Ergo nothing,’ Werthen interrupted. ‘It could just as easily be some competitor in the Foreign Office eager for advancement.’

‘Then we give ourselves insurance,’ she said, ‘just as we did in the Grunenthal case.’

She was referring to Werthen’s first case involving those close to the Emperor. In that instance, Werthen had let it be known that the information he gathered was waiting to be sent off to the foreign press in case anything untoward happened to him.

‘They may very well decide to strike before we have damning proof,’ Gross said.

Which comment brought a pall of silence over the table, punctuated only by the ticking of the pendulum wall clock. During this pause, Werthen recalled how that first case had put Berthe into deadly danger. How could he do the same again?

Berthe finally broke the silence. ‘But what if it really was just a case of bad shellfish? Aren’t we getting ahead of ourselves? First the exhumation and autopsy, and then the wringing of hands.’

Another moment of silence.

‘I for one say we proceed,’ she added. ‘I know that I am going to go ahead with Frau von Suttner’s investigation. And Karl, you know that you are not going to give up investigating the death of that poor young girl. Not after what you have found out. Not after visiting her family.’

Werthen felt a surge of pride in his wife, a warmth that engulfed him and made him want to embrace her.

‘Most persuasive, Frau Meisner,’ said Gross. ‘I shall let you put the case to my dear wife, as well. And indeed, you are right. Though my instincts tell me otherwise, von Ebersdorf’s death may turn out to be from natural causes.’

‘And even if it is not,’ Werthen added, in turn infected by Berthe’s fighting spirit, ‘who is to say that these deaths involve the intelligence agencies or even that they are connected? We still have a basket full of suspects who need vetting.’

‘That’s my man,’ Berthe said.

‘One concession,’ Werthen said.

Berthe nodded. ‘Yes, I know. Next time I shall leave Frieda with Frau Blatschky.’

They lay in bed later, haunches touching through their thin linen night apparel. She placed her head on his shoulder, threading her finger through the neck opening of his nightshirt and teasing the few hairs on his chest. The steady thrum of Gross’s snores rattled through the house from the distant guest room.

‘I’m awfully proud of you,’ Werthen said.

She placed a forefinger on his lips.

‘But I am,’ he insisted.

‘And I am proud of you – we’re a proud family, and by the sound of the good Doktor’s snores we could be a pride of lions.’

‘Just how do you intend to proceed with the von Suttner matter?’ he finally asked. ‘It would seem you have accomplished what you set out to do.’

‘I haven’t notified her yet.’

‘Are you going to warn her?’

She breathed in and then let out a warm sigh of breath on his chest.

‘If you reported the conversation correctly, the Archduke requested that his information go no further.’

‘But I’ve already told you—’

‘That was before you decided to take him on as a client. Now it seems we have an ethical conundrum – clients with competing needs.’

‘I didn’t know I married a philosopher.’

‘It must be my father’s Talmudic influence at work.’

‘I don’t think we need to let that worry us too much,’ Werthen said. ‘After all, Franz Ferdinand also said he appreciates her work.’

‘Amazing that he of all people should think so!’

They said nothing for a time.

‘Well?’

She ignored this for a moment, then sighed again. ‘I will deal with it – though it may take some thought.’

‘She is the client. She has a right to know about her husband.’

T
he 7:00 a.m. train left the Nordbahnhof five minutes late. He was not overly concerned with such things today. A Sunday. The family would be at home all day.

He was a traveling salesman for the Viennese cologne-maker Heisl today. He carried a case with the brand name blazoned on the side in white lettering to prove it. Sunday was an odd day for a traveling salesmen to be doing his rounds; but he was also Jewish, for today.

In Vienna he was Schmidt, representative of the Heisl Parfumerie; in Berlin he was Erlanger, the rail engineer from Budapest; in Warsaw he was de Koenig, the agent of a Dutch mining concern; in Zurich he was Axel Wouters, rubber merchant; and in Prague he was Maarkovsky, an importer of Polish vodka. He had posed as policeman, actor, wine grower and noble. Sometimes he had difficulty remembering his true identity: Pietr Klavan, an Estonian who at one time had prospects of a career as a concert violinist. But that, he reflected, was so long ago . . .

Schmidt was a cautious man, a man who did not like loose ends dangling. Loose ends could unravel an entire operation; and they could cost a man of many identities his life.

The train followed the course of the Danube at first, and then traversed flat farmland. Schmidt stared out of the window at the fields of spring wheat, and orchards in full bloom.

He was not sure what he expected from this trip; he knew only that he needed to see for himself. Schmidt was not merely a chameleon: he also possessed an uncanny ability to see into and through people, to instinctively read their emotions and fears. These were skills that had made him an invaluable asset to Russian Army Intelligence. These and certain other talents with his bare hands, and with knives and pistols.

A compact man, he took up not two-thirds of the window seat; the rest of the third-class compartment was empty. Later in the morning, after church services, there would be far more traffic. That was one reason for his early start: Schmidt liked to be alone with his thoughts.