Thomas Ochiltree (29 page)

Von Lauderstein had agreed quickly enough, von Falkenburg recalled. Apparently, fear of Putzi, desire for Hanna, and the realization that his inability to pay his gambling debt to Baron Von Plugge meant utter professional and social ruin anyway, had all worked together to decide him. Not to von Falkenburg’s surprise, von Lauderstein’s “confession” – the document von Falkenburg had later shown Putzi – had sought to place almost all important responsibility on the latter’s shoulders.

The big black coach rolled across the Augartenbrücke to the other side of the Danube Canal. Von Falkenburg had every reason to hate and despise von Lauderstein. And he did, for that matter. But it was still painful to remember the scene when, documents in hand, he had Helena produce Hanna. He could still hear the lashing mockery with which Hanna had responded to von Lauderstein’s clumsy endearments and his entreaties that she come with him to Italy.

Von Lauderstein had had no choice but to leave with the promised money, but without his former mistress. Had he failed to get out of Vienna in time because an irrational hope that Hanna might change her mind held him back?

Von Falkenburg did not know. But he knew that he felt no real satisfaction at von Lauderstein’s death. He had not planned on it, and even though objectively the man had gotten what he deserved, it was as if Putzi had prevented von Falkenburg from carrying out an agreement he had entered into.

More to the point, von Lauderstein’s death just made clearer to von Falkenburg that his
real
enemy was still alive and unpunished: Putzi, the man who in less than an hour might have the satisfaction of shooting him dead.

It was cold in the carriage, and von Falkenburg imagined that the waters of the Danube in which von Lauderstein’s body now floated were much colder. He gave a little shiver.

Wroclinski’s coach rolled through the deserted Praterstern. Von Falkenburg looked out the plate-glass window at the darkened booths of the fairground. They looked sinister enough, and more sinister yet was the spidery outline of the Great Wheel as it hung motionless against the faint gray of the dawn.

Following his initial interview with his colonel and Major Becker, von Falkenburg had come this way in a cab faced with the choice of conviction for treason or suicide the following morning.

Now, at least, the odds were a little better. At least now there was a
chance
of life, even though he knew perfectly well that he should not overestimate it. That Putzi was an expert marksman was something von Falkenburg did not doubt for an instant.

After all, did Putzi lack any skill that could be of use to him?

Putzi had shot dead a young man after inflicting on him perhaps the ultimate humiliation: seduction of his bride on their honeymoon. Had the hapless husband learned of the seduction by chance?

Did Putzi leave anything to chance?

Or had the challenge and the duel been like the seduction – an amusing way to pass the time while on holiday?

He was sure it was the latter, just as he was sure Putzi had killed other men in duels, and had devoted long hours to practice with both sword and pistol.

No, von Falkenburg realized, Putzi never left anything to chance, and if he had accepted von Falkenburg’s proposal, it was because he was confident that there could only be one outcome.

Unless…unless perhaps Putzi was fascinated in spite of himself by having for the first time an opponent he found worthy of himself. As von Falkenburg considered that possibility, he found he could not help feeling a curious satisfaction that Putzi regarded him as a worthy opponent.

Von Falkenburg had never fought a duel himself, although he had been a second at several. He had had the regular
salle des armes
instruction common to someone of his social class. And he still very occasionally practiced with a black-powder pistol. But he knew that by no stretch of the imagination could he consider himself a truly expert marksman.

That meant that there was an excellent likelihood that Putzi would kill him. A week ago, he had sought to kill himself. He tried without success to decide which was the less satisfactory way to die: at his own hand, or at the hand of a hated enemy.

Hated but also respected. Von Falkenburg realized a little uncomfortably that however much he despised Putzi’s ruthlessness, he could not help being impressed by his strength.

Perhaps Putzi was right, and the future would belong to men like him.

It was not an encouraging thought, and von Falkenburg shook it off like a dog shaking water from its coat.

At any rate, von Falkenburg reflected, at least he had shown Putzi that he was not just some helpless victim. And if he had to die, he would do so knowing why.

He took considerable comfort from the latter thought. A week ago, on the Rudolfsbrücke, the utter mystery of what was threatening to destroy him bothered him almost as much as the prospect of death. But what he had learned in the past seven days, and what von Lauderstein had told him, had given him an almost complete picture of what had happened, and why.

And of what still
could
happen if it was Putzi who left the dueling ground alive. For Putzi represented a threat not merely to von Falkenburg, but to the Empire itself.

Von Falkenburg knew that he had helped hold that threat in check during the past week. If he died at Putzi’s hand, he reflected, in a sense he would have fallen in battle, like his grandfather at Königgrätz. Von Falkenburg had sworn to sacrifice his life for the Emperor if necessary, and now was the time to live up to that oath.

And if indeed he did have to die, at least he had had seven days with Helena.

Helena. He silently formed the syllables with his lips and tongue, tasting their richness.

He had learned much about her in the past week. But the more he learned, the more he realized remained to be discovered, so deep was her soul.

Helena, the perfect partner and companion, the perfect helpmate, one could almost say the perfect co-conspirator in a conspiracy on behalf of right and justice.

Von Falkenburg knew the anxiety she must now be feeling. It was traditional for a man going off to fight a duel to leave the woman he loved ignorant of the fact. But von Falkenburg could never have done that. Not just because Helena knew that his time was up and that he now had to conquer or die. But because what the two of them had been through together in the past week simply made it impossible for him to consider deceiving her in any way.

A strange image came to his mind as the carriage turned onto a track leading to one of the most desolate parts of the Prater: the image of his funeral with full military honors – for he knew that if he fell in the duel, his convenient death would be treated by his relieved colonel and by Military Intelligence as the functional equivalent of the promised suicide, and the confession and evidence destroyed – with Helena at the graveside, magnificent in black. A society scandal. Whispers in polite drawing rooms to the effect that she had been the cause of his death. But she would not care.

Von Falkenburg felt a pang of guilt as he realized just how much egotism lay behind such a fantasy. Women, he realized, at least in the perfect form represented by Helena, were far less vain than men.

He thought of her happiness when he had asked her if – assuming he lived – she would be willing to consider exchanging the title of princess for that of Baroness von Falkenburg.

That had been a few hours ago, in the most strangely marvelous night he had ever spent with a woman. Marvelous in part, he knew, because the hovering nearness of death gave it a curious consecration. At such a time, what else could there be but the total gift of oneself?

The light was rising quickly. Von Falkenburg could distinguish easily the trunks of the trees they were passing, and when he turned to Wroclinski, he could see a gray rectangle of light projected on the latter’s face by the carriage window.

It would soon be over.

“So here we are, I suppose,” von Falkenburg said as the carriage turned into a clearing, gravel crunching beneath its wheels.

“Indeed, so we are, old man,” Wroclinski replied. He hesitated a moment, and then said, “von Falkenburg, I knew there are some mysteries to this duel. But just remember, whatever happens, I’ll always believe you were in the right.”

Von Falkenburg took his offered hand gratefully.

The carriage pulled to a halt. The coachman got down from the box and opened the door on Wroclinski’s side. Wroclinski got out, followed by von Falkenburg.

The air was cold, and von Falkenburg hoped that it was that which made him shiver.

A short distance away stood another coach, its superb horses pawing the ground and snorting steam. Putzi’s
équipage
was every bit as elegant as von Falkenburg had known it would be.

There was also a horse cab waiting. Rubinstein must have come in that, von Falkenburg realized. Putzi had had no objection to von Falkenburg supplying the doctor – whose sole task would be to attend to any wounds the survivor might have, as this was to be a duel to the death – just as he had had no objection to him supplying the pistols.

Von Falkenburg found Putzi’s assurance more than a little unsettling, and he suspected that it was precisely to unsettle him that Putzi had instructed his second to be so accommodating on such points. At any rate, in accordance with established etiquette, Rubinstein, as the doctor, had come separately.

The two groups of men approached one another. Putzi was not wearing a morning cutaway, as von Falkenburg had expected, but a tweed jacket of the kind one went duck shooting in. Another neat little psychological point, von Falkenburg admitted grudgingly to himself.

And if Putzi still felt the anger von Falkenburg had seen flare up when von Falkenburg insulted him in the Sacher, it was covered by his usual mask of amused imperturbability. That mask was similar to Wroclinski’s, even though the two men were morally at opposite poles. Then he wondered that he should be able to make such observations at a time like this.

Rubinstein looked very worried. Von Falkenburg knew him to be an excellent judge of character, and presumed that one look at Putzi had sufficed to convince him that his friend was facing a
very
dangerous enemy.

Putzi’s second was a Lieutenant von Göckel-Hesslingn of the Imperial Life Guards Mounted. Von Falkenburg knew him as a person with a solid reputation for straightforward integrity. With him and Wroclinski as seconds, there was no need to worry about the conditions of the duel being carried out.

Lieutenant von Göckel-Hesslingen stepped forward, and turning to von Falkenburg’s second said, “Count Wroclinski, does your principal offer an apology for the insult he inflicted upon my principal?”

“No, Lieutenant, he does not,” Wroclinski replied.

“Then my principal must insist upon the satisfaction which a gentleman requires in such circumstances,” the lieutenant said.

“My principal is at your principal’s service,” Wroclinski replied. For all its politeness, a statement of defiance.

Then Wroclinski went on, “as you know, Lieutenant, our principals have instructed us to take custody of certain papers in order that another affair of honor can be settled at this time, as the circumstances of this duel preclude any further meeting of the gentlemen.”

“That is correct,” Lieutenant von Göckel-Hesslingen agreed. “Do you have your principal’s papers?”

Wroclinski produced the envelope von Falkenburg had given him containing von Lauderstein’s confession and the letter from the Russian Embassy incriminating Putzi. He handed it over to Lieutenant von Göckel-Hesslingen in exchange for a fat packet of papers.

In accordance with what had been agreed on, each second then permitted his principal to examine the papers received, without looking at them himself, after Putzi and von Falkenburg each gave his word of honor not to try to keep the materials if the other declared himself dissatisfied with what
he
had been shown. In the event that either principal made such a declaration of dissatisfaction, both sets of documents were to be returned to the original owners. If the principals declared themselves satisfied, however, the seconds were to keep joint custody of the papers until the duel was over, and then in accordance with their own words of honor, hand everything over to the survivor.

Von Falkenburg knew that Putzi regarded himself as being “strong without honor – strong having renounced honor.” But he also knew that Putzi would never break a solemn oath given in the presence of witnesses. For to do so would mean being transformed instantly into a pariah, cast out for life from the world in which he was accustomed to live…and scheme.

No, von Falkenburg told himself, Putzi knew his only chance of getting to keep von Lauderstein’s confession and the letter from the Russian embassy was to satisfy von Falkenburg with what he had brought so that duel could go forward as planned…and kill him in it.

Besides, Putzi knew that von Falkenburg could only use the evidence against him in the event that von Falkenburg killed
him.
And von Falkenburg figured that Putzi was not a man to worry about what posterity thought of him.

Logically, then, Putzi had every reason to provide him with what they had agreed on. Still, it seemed strange to von Falkenburg to at last have such complete proof of his own innocence and of Putzi’s guilt, and to have it from Putzi himself.

The first document in the packet Wroclinski handed von Falkenburg was a confession exonerating him and taking full responsibility for the espionage and the murders of Lasky and von Lauderstein. Then there was a voluminous correspondence in German of a clearly treasonous nature between Putzi and the Russians.

Von Falkenburg did not have time to study everything, for the packet was very thick. But its contents were clearly enough to establish his innocence – assuming he could kill Putzi instead of being killed by him.

Von Falkenburg handed the papers back to Wroclinski and said, “very good.”

“My principal is satisfied with what he has been shown,” Wroclinski said to Lieutenant von Göckel-Hesslingen. “Is your principal also satisfied?”