The Keeper of Hands (39 page)

Herr von Werthen nodded.

‘Five–love,’ Gross said.

Herr Meisner served for the second time. He had earlier demurred about his athletic ability, but he soon caught on to the game and was now sending a blistering ball in the direction of his paramour, whose return landed neatly at the feet of the Baroness, who netted her ball.

‘Oh, I am sorry,’ she said to her partner, but Herr Meisner was so overcome with competitive zeal that he simply made a harrumphing sound in reply. He had shaved off his long beard and looked at least ten years younger. Werthen was surprised at the transformation; and Berthe had been shocked when she saw him
sans
whiskers. He had worn a beard all the years of her life.

Clearly, love had its own demands.

‘Well played,’ Werthen’s mother called to Frau Juliani.

Looking about him, Werthen realized that everyone he cared about in the world was gathered at the farmhouse this beautiful Saturday. The soft heat of the afternoon even made him glad his parents were constructing their new residence nearby. Somehow the events of last month had mellowed him, had made him see how precious and short life is.

Berthe came out of the house, and watched the next few points as her father took his team to victory.

She came up to Werthen. ‘That was good of you.’

‘What?’

‘Letting him win like that.’

He smiled, not knowing anyone would notice.

‘I have something to tell you,’ she said.

But at that moment his father said, ‘Seems like you have visitors, son. And by the look of that automobile I would say important ones, as well.’

Werthen looked down the approach road to their farmhouse and saw the car moving along, leaving a funnel of dust in its wake. It looked very much like the vehicle they had ridden in when fetched to an audience with Archduke Franz Ferdinand. And if Werthen was not mistaken, that was the Archduke himself riding on the bench seat behind the driver, who would no doubt be Private Ferdinand Porsche. Next to the Archduke sat a beanpole of a man: Duncan, his personal bodyguard.

‘You’d better tell me later,’ Werthen said to Berthe. And then, still dressed in his tennis whites, together with Gross, attired rather more formally, went to the front of the farmhouse to greet them.

‘Ask him to join us,’ Herr von Werthen called to his son as he left. ‘I’ve never met an Archduke, especially one nobody likes.’

‘Emile,’ his wife said in a chiding tone.

The others were chatting to one another about the surprise arrival as Werthen got out of earshot.

‘What the devil do you think brings him here?’ said Gross as they strolled towards the approaching vehicle.

Werthen did not care to speculate on what things might motivate royalty. He only hoped the Archduke was not about to cast a shadow over this perfect day.

Private Porsche thoughtfully pulled his automobile to a stop at a little distance from the house, so as not to engulf them in the dust trailing behind the vehicle. He and Duncan got down from the Lohner-Porsche and came towards them.

‘Good day to you Duncan, Private Porsche.’ Werthen nodded at each in turn. They made a humorous contrasting pair: the one tall and thin as a rail, the other a good deal shorter.

Private Porsche shot them a half salute and Duncan returned their greeting. Then, ‘He wants to talk with the two of you,’ the Scot said.

‘Please, tell the Archduke that we would be more than happy to entertain him.’

Duncan shook his head. ‘Not entertainment he’s looking for, and he told me to apologize for barging in like this on your weekend, guests and all.’ He nodded to the carriages parked nearby, and the people by the tennis court. ‘Playing the game of kings, I see,’ Duncan said, a sly smile on his face.

‘We do not necessarily play it in a kingly manner,’ Werthen said, ‘but we do enjoy ourselves.’

‘What’s this about, Duncan?’ Gross finally said.

‘His Highness will tell you. He wants to meet with you at the motor vehicle.’

He said no more, and Werthen and Gross did as requested.

As they got near the automobile, Franz Ferdinand waved at them. ‘Sorry to once again plague you on a Saturday, but I was in the vicinity and thought you might want to hear some information I’ve received. Please, no long faces, gentlemen. I will not keep you long. You may recall that I have an agent in place in St Petersburg?’

‘The one who warned you about a double agent in the Bureau?’ Gross said.

‘Precisely. I received a communiqué from him this morning. It seems military intelligence in St Petersburg has been in a barking match with the Russian Foreign Office over the death of this double agent. Each accusing the other of incompetence, and looking for a scapegoat to save face. It appears they found one with the return of the man who was controlling their double agent.’

‘Schmidt!’ Gross said the name as if cursing.

‘One would assume so,’ said the Archduke. ‘My agent merely noted that the controller running the double agent was appropriately chastised. I use his word: chastised.’

Werthen heard Gross emit a low growling sound.

‘What are we to assume that means, your Highness?’ Werthen asked.

Franz Ferdinand shrugged, a gesture that made him appear less than regal. ‘Knowing the Russians, it would probably be either a bullet in the back of the head or a long vacation in Siberia. Either way, gentlemen, I don’t think we will be plagued by the man in future. It would seem that, at long last, justice has been done. For quite the wrong reasons, but justice nonetheless.’

Gross suddenly stood tall, chest thrust out. ‘It is good of you to bring this information, your Highness. A kind thought.’

Indeed, the news seemed to make Gross come alive again and to reassert his overbearing attitude. Werthen never thought he would entertain such a sentiment, but he had actually missed the Doktor Gross of old – supercilious, autocratic, officious.

They said their goodbyes, the Archduke politely declining an invitation to a cup of tea.

As they walked back to the lawn party, Gross sniffed once and then said, ‘I could have told you that would happen to Schmidt. The man was a fool to return to his masters. My prediction exactly.’

It was good to have the old Gross back, Werthen thought.

Returning to the others, Werthen told the news first to Berthe, who seemed to breathe a sigh of relief, knowing Schmidt was no longer a threat. The bombing of Werthen’s office was still uppermost in her mind. Meanwhile, Gross was entertaining the others with his own version of events.

‘Now what was it you had to tell me?’ Werthen asked his wife. ‘Something about the law-office renovation?’

She put her mouth to his ear, whispering, and his smile turned into a sigh of love and happiness.

‘You’re sure?’

She nodded. ‘It’s been more than a month. You know how regular I am.’

He wanted to shout out for everyone to know. Instead, he took the cup of tea that Berthe handed to him.

Gross, finishing with his blandishments about Schmidt, turned to Werthen and saw such a blessed look of happiness on the man’s face that he was indeed glad for his little bit of subterfuge at the news Franz Ferdinand had imparted. No need to spoil the nice tennis party.

Pure nonsense, of course, both the news and his feigned relief. For Schmidt was a survivor. He would never return to St Petersburg if he thought such a fate awaited him.

No. They would, Gross feared, hear more of Schmidt in the future.