Thomas Ochiltree (2 page)

To von Falkenburg’s surprise there was a major who did not belong to the regiment standing next to the colonel, a major who looked just as grim as the colonel did.

Von Falkenburg saluted, and the colonel introduced him to the major, a Major Becker from Military Intelligence. Von Falkenburg could detect a tension in the atmosphere, an almost palpable feeling of hostility towards himself. He realized that he must be in some kind of fairly serious trouble, but he could not for the life of him imagine why. That business with
Hofrat
Wanke’s beautiful but hysterical wife had gotten a bit messy, but that was months ago, and besides, the
Hofrat
would hardly dishonor himself by sneaking around to von Falkenburg’s colonel rather than challenging von Falkenburg to a duel. And what a major from Military Intelligence could be doing here was completely puzzling.

“Major Becker has something he wishes to show you,” the colonel said with a coldness that went well beyond what his unfriendly personality normally had to offer.

The major took a bundle of papers out of a briefcase and handed a sheet to von Falkenburg, who looked uncomprehendingly at the meaningless loops and squiggles that covered it.

“You read Russian, of course?” the major said casually.

“No, in fact I don’t,” von Falkenburg replied, astonished by the implicit assumption of the major that he could.

“Ah, I thought otherwise,” the major said, exchanging a glance with the colonel which seemed to say of von Falkenburg’s denial, “pathetic, isn’t it?”

“Perhaps you could tell me what is written here,” von Falkenburg said coldly. He could see that the major’s question had been intended as a trap of some kind, but his annoyance at being treated this way, and his genuine puzzlement, distracted his attention from the question’s sinister implications.

“I have a translation here,” the major said. “Of course, Russian is much harder to read when it is handwritten than when it is printed.”

Von Falkenburg realized that this seeming concession by Major Becker that he might not be able to read the handwritten document carried with it the implication that he
could
have read it had it been printed.

“I said I cannot read Russian,” von Falkenburg said, stressing every word and looking the major straight in the eye. “I have good French, fair Italian, and a little Hungarian, but no Russian.”

His stare caused Major Becker to avert his eyes. That was a point gained, and von Falkenburg decided to go for another one.

“Or would you care to suggest,
Herr Major,
that I was lying just now when I said that?”

A “yes” would mean a challenge and a duel.

“Of course not,” Major Becker said quickly.

Rarely had von Falkenburg taken a more thorough dislike to someone more quickly. Of course, the colonel should have called the major up short for impugning the honor of the regiment in the person of one of its officers, but clearly no support would be coming from that quarter.

The major handed von Falkenburg a typewritten piece of paper.

“This is a translation of a message from a Russian diplomat in Vienna to the Imperial War Ministry in St. Petersburg,” the major said.

One passage had been underlined in blue pencil, perhaps by the major, since he pointed to it with a gloved finger.

“The redeployment plans for the 5th Dragoons and 23rd and 98th Infantry Regiments are quite a coup,” the passage read. “We hope our source,” it went on, “Captain E. von F., an impoverished nobleman in the 4th I.R., will be able to provide us with other equally interesting items in the future.”

“Typical of the Russians to think writing a name in initials would be adequate cover for their source if the message fell into the wrong hands,” the major said with a tone of indifference which was completely belied by the look of satisfaction and triumph on his lengthy face.

“There are not any other officers in the regiment with your initials, von Falkenburg,” the colonel put in.

The accusation was so unexpected, so outrageous, so false, that for a moment von Falkenburg was not capable of any coherent reaction to it at all.

“Colonel, I cannot believe that you are serious…” he finally managed to say.

“Do I need repeat myself, von Falkenburg?” the colonel asked coldly. “There are no other officers in the regiment with your initials.”

“Nor are there any who could be described as ‘impoverished noblemen,’” von Falkenburg was tempted to reply sarcastically, but discipline and the knowledge that the colonel would probably simply agree with him, made him hold back the words.

“And that is not the most damning evidence against you. We have a witness who has named you personally.”

“This is the most preposterous, the most absurd accusation…!” von Falkenburg managed to splutter, almost paralyzed by a fatal combination of rage and astonishment. “How on earth would I get hold of secret plans? I’m not on the General Staff!”

“But our witness is…or was, for he’s now under arrest,” Major Becker said, clearly enjoying the process of pulling the noose ever tighter. “He says he gave the plans to you.”

Von Falkenburg had seen that smug, vicious satisfaction once before, when one of the best swordsmen in Europe had sought revenge on an enemy by goading the latter into challenging him to a duel that could – and did – have only one outcome.

“The lying swine is willing to testify that
I
am a
spy
?” von Falkenburg roared, almost suffocating with rage.

“Yes. He also gave us this,” the major said calmly.

It was a scrap of paper written in German in what looked to von Falkenburg exactly like his own handwriting. It would have been uncanny to him regardless of its contents.

“Planned increase in strength on Hungarian/Russian border can be confirmed; it will take place next month. Destroy this”

“Nowadays, the science of handwriting analysis has made remarkable strides, as perhaps you know, Captain,” the major said. He calmly handed von Falkenburg some other papers in German representing correspondence between von Falkenburg and the Russian military attaché.

Appalled, von Falkenburg saw that each one of them implicated him as a spy for the Russians. Taken individually, none perhaps would have been conclusive. But together, they constituted an overwhelming case against him. On evidence such as this a court-martial composed of his best friends would have to convict him.

With every furious denial, every outburst of astonished rage, von Falkenburg felt himself sink deeper into the quagmire. He knew that he had to pause and try to approach the situation as a whole. He was like an army that has been taken on the flank, and can’t hope to save itself unless it can have a breathing space in which to re-form.

“Gentlemen,” he said, taking a deep breath and trying to speak as calmly as possible, “I have no idea why or by whom this obscene fraud has been perpetrated against me. But I give you my word of honor….”

“It’s a little late to talk about honor now, isn’t it, von Falkenburg?” the colonel interrupted brutally.

“You believe me guilty?”

“The documents are explicit.”

“The documents are fakes, and I shall prove it!”

“How?” the major asked quietly.

There was no way of answering that, for the simple reason that for the life of him, von Falkenburg could not see how he could defend himself against evidence such as had just been shown to him…and which presumably was just part of a larger whole. Indeed, if he were sitting on a court-martial panel, such documents would cause him to vote the accused “guilty” without a moment’s hesitation.

“Don’t you understand why we have shown them to you?” the colonel asked impatiently. “It is hardly usual to display to a man in advance the evidence that will be used against him at his trial.”

“There is no intention to prosecute?” von Falkenburg asked incredulously.

“There is no expectation that you will fail to do the right thing,” the colonel said. “You spoke of your word of honor just now. Well, you have a chance to take the honorable way out. To perform one last service for the regiment and army which will atone for your past actions.”

“Take the honorable way out.” In the present context, the phrase could have only one meaning.

“You want me to use my revolver to make things easy for you?” von Falkenburg asked bitterly.

“Easy for the regiment and army, and if that does not matter to you, easy on yourself and your family. Look at your choices, man: on one hand, the fate we all come to in the end. On the other, arrest, certain conviction after a court martial that will be the talk of Austria-Hungary if not Europe, and then either the firing squad, or the rest of your days in prison with common thieves and murderers who will feel they have every right to despise you because
they
did not betray their country.”

“I don’t know if it means anything to you that your grandfather served under Radetsky, and that your great grandfather played a crucial role against Napoleon at Leipzig when he led that charge against the French right,” the colonel went on. “I don’t know if it means anything to you that the von Falkenburgs have served the House of Hapsburg since the foundation of the dynasty. I have often suspected you of having a dangerously questioning mind on matters that an army officer should take on faith. But surely you cannot fail to see the disgrace and ruin that conviction would bring upon your mother and sister.”

The colonel paused for a second.

“You in a traitor’s grave or a dungeon, your mother half-mad with shame, your sister doomed to the life of an old maid dependent on charity and shunned by everyone. That, von Falkenburg, is your alternative to taking the gentleman’s way out.”

“I can only admire your tact,” von Falkenburg managed to reply. But in fact he was badly shaken by the colonel’s unexpectedly eloquent presentation of his choices. Perhaps Major Becker had coached the colonel, but that did not make the arguments any less telling.

“If you do the right thing,” the colonel continued, “Military Intelligence – which has no desire to weaken Austria-Hungary by casting discredit upon her most famous regiment – is willing to promise the most complete discretion. If you leave a letter explaining your action, any motive you give in it (other than the real one, of course) will be treated as official and definitive, both towards your family and towards the world. Or if you wish, you may leave instructions for another cause of…decease…to be announced, such as a fall from a horse or an accident with a firearm. At any rate, the incriminating documents will be destroyed. The honor of the army, of the regiment, and of your family, will be preserved.”

“Is the honor of the regiment compatible with applying pressure by threatening the happiness of two innocent women, Colonel?”

“That is not the issue,” the colonel said curtly. “The issue is your treason. We expect your decision by eight o’clock tomorrow morning. And if you make the right decision, we expect it to have been put into effect by then.”

“My corpse before breakfast, Colonel?”

“The interview is at an end, von Falkenburg. You may go,” the colonel replied.

Down the corridor, his footsteps resounding on the hard floor; out the main door of the barracks and into the cold of the waning day. Von Falkenburg placed one foot rapidly in front of the other with hardly any idea of where he was, and none of where he was going, as he sought unsuccessfully to focus his mind on the fact that by morning he would be dead or disgraced.

Dead or disgraced, dead or disgraced, dead or disgraced;
the phrase bounced back and forth inside his skull to the rhythm of his stride.

“Achtung!”
and a hand was grabbing his shoulder roughly, and there was the noise of metal grinding on metal, and the sound of a frantically clanging bell.

The streetcar skidded by, sparks flying from its locked wheels. One more step, and the colonel and Major Becker would not have had to wait for morning.

The streetcar motorman leaned his head out with the intention of saying something biting, but the sight of the uniform, and ingrained habits of respect, made him limit himself to a “hrmmph!” He pulled his head back, and von Falkenburg watched the car start off down the Ring again, slowly accelerating.

“With all due respect, the captain should be more careful,” a voice behind him said gently.

Von Falkenburg looked around and saw a middle-aged civilian in a rather rumpled suit.

“Captain von Falkenburg, Infantry Regiment “Hoch- und Deutschmeister,” von Falkenburg said with a bow. “You saved my life, sir.”

“Professor Hupfnigg,” the civilian replied, bowing in turn.

There was a pause. Both men realized that they had nothing more to say to one another. They bowed again, and the professor turned and headed back into his own life.

Von Falkenburg looked around him and realized for the first time that it was cold, but no longer raining, that he was standing on the Ringstrasse two blocks from his barracks, and that he did not have to keep thinking the same three words over and over again.

That in itself was such a relief that it took a moment for him to remember that he was condemned to death or to an existence that would be an endless nightmare of shame and rage. He felt cold and wondered if he should go back and get a coat. He decided against it, telling himself that the cold would help him keep his mind clear. In fact, it was already clear enough for him to realize that he really wanted to be cold in the irrational hope that he could bargain with fate, and by accepting a minor discomfort now escape what awaited him tomorrow. But he still did not go back. He had to be alone, had to get away from all these people on the Ring whose future had not yet been reduced to just two fearsome possibilities. A cab was coming along at the trot, and von Falkenburg hailed it.

“To the Rudolfsbrücke,” he said to the cabby.

That was an odd order to get from someone coatless and without baggage, for the only thing at that bridge – which was far from the center of town – was the landing stage for the steamers that plied up and down the Danube. But the cabby was used to getting strange orders from young officers, and was enough of a student of the human race to know that his fare wanted silence. So without a word he laid his whip on the rump of the horse.