He made his way from the Bower through a tangle of streets in the First District to his lunch meeting with Gross at the outdoor restaurant in the Volksgarten. He was going to be late, but Gross would just have to wait. The shoe had been on the other foot enough times in that regard.
As he walked, he tried to collate a plethora of facts, but what stuck out primarily was what had just transpired at the Bower: he had been sacked. But why?
He meant to find out.
Entering the Volksgarten, he saw the officer from the General Staff whom he had often noticed on his way to work. He was ramrod stiff in demeanor today as always, perhaps even more so. Again, the patent-leather visor of the captain’s cap was faultless, glistening in the sun, his high boots resplendently polished, the brass buttons on his green tunic twinkling like little stars. They passed one another on the path to the garden restaurant, but the officer’s eyes were fixed straight ahead; a muscle in his jaw twitched, the only sign that he was human and not a moving wax figure or automaton.
Once again, Werthen was struck by the notion that here was a figure out of fiction, here was a fellow that could take center stage in a short story. This was no Lieutenant Gustl out of a Schnitzler play, but a man on a mission.
‘Werthen.’
Gross called to him from a table at the rear of the restaurant’s terrace, diverting his mind from such ruminations. Werthen tipped his Homburg in recognition, and picked his way through the crowded slalom of tables and diners.
‘I thought you’d never get here,’ Gross said as Werthen took a seat opposite him at the small table. The bread basket was depleted; flakes of crust, a salt crystal or two, and a scattering of caraway seeds let him know that Gross had not gone unfed while waiting.
‘I have the most extraordinary news for you,’ said Werthen.
Meanwhile, the General Staff captain Werthen had just seen – having taken an early lunch – made his way into the interior courtyards of the Hofburg, saluted a sentry on duty at the main door to the War Ministry, and then cantered up four flights of broad marble stairs, his boots clacking against the stone. At the top of the stairs another sentry returned a smart salute. Then he took his seat at his desk in the Operations Section of the General Staff’s Intelligence Bureau.
Looking through the midday dispatches, Adelbert Forstl used all his strength of will to maintain a calm exterior. Inwardly he was in turmoil: this day might well be the most important in his career, indeed in his entire life. He had come such a long way from his humble origins in Lemberg, the son of a freight clerk for the railway. One of six children, Adelbert knew early on that his only escape from brutal poverty would be a military career. There was no money for higher education; but because his father Franz had served as a lieutenant in the Austrian army for a decade, Adelbert was eligible for free entrance to the Cadet School Karnovsky in the center of Lemberg. And that is where he went when he reached the age of fourteen.
Though Galicia and Lemberg had been under Austrian rule for over a century, the overwhelming number of citizens were still Polish speakers, then came Ruthenian, and only about one percent of the population were true German speakers. After the compromise Emperor Franz Josef struck with his far-flung territories in 1867, there was no pretense at all at making German the official language. Polish, with its harsh gutturals, was the language of commerce and government in the region. Adelbert, born in 1860, thus grew up learning a Babel of languages and hating all but German, as he was an ethnic German and a Catholic. Now, however, he was happy that he had had such an upbringing; his languages (he had since learned Russian as well) were in part what had secured him his present position as Chief of Operations and head of the Russian desk at the Bureau.
Separated from the empire by the Carpathian Mountains and a non-Germanic culture, Adelbert had slowly made his way from junior officer to captain, serving in various outposts of the empire. Through diligence and good luck, he saw his value rise in the army, not an easy task for the son of a freight clerk. Now, after twenty years of hard work, he was delighted to have finally arrived, even surpassing some of those who had a ‘von’ before their names. He was at the very seat of power of the empire – no longer posted to the fringes but at the heart of things, in the same constellation of buildings the Emperor called home.
He looked at the pendulum clock on the wall of his small office. Still fifteen more minutes until his meeting with Colonel von Krahlich, chief of the Bureau. He needed to get his thoughts in order – so much rested on the way he presented his case to von Krahlich. He unlocked the bottom right-hand drawer of his desk, took out two thick gray-covered files, and placed them on the desk in front of him. Bombs about to be dropped.
Von Krahlich’s adjutant poked his head in the door without bothering to knock.
‘Captain, the Colonel would like to see you now. There’s been an alteration in appointments.’
Forstl was dragged out of his ruminations, annoyed that the adjutant had not first announced himself.
That was something he would fix later when he was in charge.
‘If you don’t mind,’ the adjutant, Captain Johann von Daum, added with a barely discernable tone of irony.
That was also something Forstl would fix later.
‘Not at all,’ Forstl said, hiding his pique. ‘Now?’
‘This moment,’ von Daum said.
Forstl straightened his green tunic as he stood up, careful that no evidence of his paunch should show. He picked up the two files from the desk as he left.
Von Krahlich had the largest office on the fourth floor, with tall windows looking out over the parade ground below. Daylight filtered through lace curtains at the windows; the lace was embroidered all over with the Imperial-Royal K und K insignia. Von Krahlich, a large, florid man with thick white hair brushed off his forehead, sat at his inlaid rosewood desk enjoying an after-lunch cigar.
‘Ah, Forstl, just the man I wanted to see – or who wanted to see me,’ von Krahlich said as Forstl and the adjutant entered. This was followed by a mirthless laugh and then the colonel waved away his assistant, laconically returning Forstl’s crisp salute.
‘Sit, sit,’ said von Krahlich insistently as if this were the third time he had offered.
The room smelled of tobacco, leather and the pomade the colonel used. The scent of power; Forstl had longed for that aroma all his life. He sat on the edge of the offered Biedermeier chair, his back held ruler-straight.
‘So, settling in are we?’
Although Forstl had already been at the Bureau for six months, von Krahlich still viewed him as a newcomer. Forstl had planned it that way: it gave him the advantage of surprise. Von Krahlich expected little of him; in fact, from Forstl’s months there, the Bureau seemed to be a graveyard. Soldiers went there to end their careers, rather than begin them. Forstl had no such intentions. Quite the reverse, in fact.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Come to see me about that little love nest at the Hotel Metropole, have you?’
Damn silly action, Forstl thought. A waste of manpower to catch a husband in flagrante with his niece, and then use it to blackmail the activist wife into silence. But it was von Krahlich’s operation; Forstl inherited it when taking over the section. He had to appear enthusiastic about it.
‘Actually, no, sir. That goes according to your excellent plan. I have, in fact, come to see you about an entirely different matter. I feel I’ve become familiar enough with Operations to offer some suggestions for improvement.’
Von Krahlich, who was appreciating a blue trace of cigar smoke as Forstl said this, cleared his throat at the suggestion.
‘Improvements?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘We’ve got a long tradition at the Bureau, Forstl.’
‘I know, sir. That is part of the problem, if I may say so, sir.’
The mouse that roared; that was Forstl’s tactic. Quiet as a mouse he’d been for the first six months. Now the roar of the bombshell.
Von Krahlich carefully placed the cigar in a cut-glass ashtray. But before he could speak, Forstl charged ahead.
‘We’re not getting the results we should, sir. I think I can tell you how to change that. And how, in so doing, to bring more honor to the Bureau and to yourself.’
Von Krahlich puffed his cheeks, about to speak, then thought better of it. He motioned with his hand for Forstl to proceed.
‘First, we are not gathering information in the way a modern intelligence agency should.’
‘Back to the Black Chambers and opening the citizens’ mail? Is that what you are suggesting? Gentlemen do not open gentlemen’s mail, sir.’
‘That is where I come in, sir. I am no gentleman. I am the son of a freight clerk in Lemberg. I have no such restrictions on my actions. I do not have to play by the rules.’
At which von Krahlich let out a blunderbuss of a laugh.
‘By damn, son, you do speak plainly.’
Forstl cocked his head at this. ‘Half our so-called agents are running paper mills, making up their reports out of thin air. Fabrications, pure and simple, yet we are paying them for it. We have only one successful agent in the field, number 184.’
‘The German Intelligence Service,’ von Krahlich said.
‘Yes. Without their cooperation, we would be sorely pressed to make assessments of potential enemies and their armies.’
‘And you suggest?’
‘That we reassess our agent lists. As it is now, we have people working for us who are unpaid patriots, spying for the love of country. We have foreign nationals that we pay to pass on information on their country of origin. And we have professionals that we send out from Operations to gather information. We need more of the latter. And we need to train them in the arts of intelligence. This is not and should not be a gentleman’s club, sir. At the top, of course. But not those making the day-to-day decisions, such as myself. We should play the game by the modern rules of intelligence and be willing to take public disapprobation if that results from our actions.’
‘And where do you suggest we get the funding for such agents, Forstl? Our budget is smaller now than it was a century ago—’
‘And the Foreign Office detests us because we threaten their stranglehold on espionage in the empire. Yes, I understand those limiting factors. However, I believe we can turn that around if we have some successes.’
‘Such as?’
‘We catch some spies. After all, that is part of my mandate as Chief of Operations. Counter-intelligence falls within my purview. I think you may be interested in some files I have been compiling.’
He placed the two gray-covered files on the desk in front of von Krahlich.
Werthen and Gross had partaken of the particularly fine Wiener Schnitzel the garden restaurant served; all that remained on Gross’s plate were the squashed remains of two lemon wedges. Werthen had been unable to finish his: a chunk of cutlet the shape of Styria remained on his plate. Gross eyed it as he sipped a small strong black coffee, what the Italians – who had just invented it – called an espresso.
Gross absorbed Werthen’s news of the murder of Fräulein Fanny almost as if he had expected it to happen. He saved a show of emotion for the fact that Drechsler had kept back the detail of the cut-off finger from the newspapers; this seemed to please him no end.
‘Finally,’ he said. ‘Light in the wilderness. My investigatory principles are taking hold.’
They then proceeded to review the progress of their various cases: Gross’s findings at the Foreign Office, Berthe’s discoveries regarding the Hotel Metropole and the von Suttner matter, and Werthen’s own confrontation with the writer Bahr.
‘Spies seem to be figuring rather prominently in our investigations,’ said Werthen. He felt like having a cigar; he did not smoke, but suddenly a cigar seemed exactly the right complement to this heavy meal.
‘Precisely what I was thinking,’ Gross said, setting his small cup down with rather too much gusto, making a loud clanging sound against the tiny spoon on the saucer that drew attention from the next table.
Gross glared back at the middle-aged couple with a stare as dour as a dead carp’s. They quickly returned to their strudel.
‘Von Ebersdorf, Schnitzler.’ Werthen ticked them off on his fingers. ‘And let’s not forget about the cryptic placement of the unfortunate Fräulein Mitzi’s letter in the Bible at Joshua: 2. We thought at the time the reference about Rahab the harlot was the important one, that it was meant to signify Fräulein Mitzi. But I have been thinking more about this. The spies saved in the harlot’s house might very well refer to von Ebersdorf.’
‘Very good, Werthen.’
Gross seemed actually pleased, surprised even, at this feat of memory and deduction on Werthen’s part.
It was the note of surprise that rankled.
‘I have been known to have an original thought, Gross.’
‘No reason to be so touchy. It was meant as a compliment. I was leaning in that direction myself. One wonders if Fräulein Mitzi knew of von Ebersdorf’s true profession?’
They both allowed that query to linger for a moment.
Then Gross charged on. ‘Nor should we forget the mysterious man in the straw boater your wife encountered yesterday.’
‘That’s a bit of a leap.’
‘I assure you, it is not. Frau von Suttner has proved herself a most irritating thorn in the side of both the military and the Foreign Office with her damnable pacifist sentiments. I am sorry, Werthen, but your good lady wife is not present and that is what I call the Baroness when not forced to be polite. She’s a nuisance and a traitor to her class.’
‘Your point, Gross?’
‘As obvious as the bit of breading on your tie.’
Werthen automatically looked down and brushed the crumb away.
‘I am sure both the General Staff and the Foreign Office would like nothing better than to find some juicy scandal involving Baroness von Suttner or her family. A bargaining chip, you might call it.’
‘Soften her tone towards the military or face public humiliation?’
‘Exactly.’ Gross swivelled his coffee cup on its tiny saucer. ‘Ergo the watcher of her husband.’
‘But in that case, they surely have their ammunition?’
‘It would seem so from what your wife reports of the assignation. But that is not our concern. Not our case.’
‘Berthe has taken it on in the name of the agency. It is my case just as surely as it is hers.’
‘I should rather have said, not our focus. Most definitely not, after what you tell me of this second murder. Someone is very intent on covering up something.’
‘Not a simple matter of a multiple murderer at large, you mean?’
A heavy nod from Gross. ‘Our man is not killing willy-nilly. He has picked his victims carefully, both from the Bower, both confidantes of the madam of that establishment—’
‘Frau Mutzenbacher.’
He waved away the name as if it were a gnat. ‘Both victims of a killer who leaves a signature.’
‘That part of it seems to me to put these murders in the realm of psychopathology,’ Werthen said.
‘Perhaps our killer wants us to believe so. Or perhaps he needs proof of the deed, needs to keep a tally of sorts.’
Again the thought of Fräulein Metzinger’s ‘the keeper of hands’ ran through his mind.
‘We are left to wonder,’ Gross continued, ‘exactly what is being covered up. A professional killer – one therefore assumes a professional motive.’
‘Not necessarily,’ Werthen said. ‘Professional killers can be hired. Who is to say that the priest, Mitzi’s Uncle Hieronymus, did not have a sudden fear of exposure? Perhaps his niece even threatened to expose him and he needed to silence her.’
‘And Fräulein Fanny’s murder?’
‘Perhaps Mitzi shared her secret with Fanny and she was blackmailing Hieronymus.’
Gross raised his eyebrows.
‘Or Schnitzler,’ Werthen went on. ‘He silenced his former lover to keep her from telling his betrothed about their affair. Fanny could have pursued the same scheme of blackmail in that scenario.’ But even as he said it, he disbelieved it. Schnitzler’s Lothario reputation preceded him: he would hardly kill to protect against something everyone assumed to be true.
‘And I assume you could say the same for Altenberg,’ Gross said, joining in the game. ‘Perhaps he was lying about the platonic relationship he had with Mitzi. The man has a fondness for young girls. Maybe their tête-à-têtes were more about deeds than talk. Something seriously neurotic. And perhaps Fräulein Mitzi was not the saint-like girl everyone says she was. She threatens to go public with his base desires.’
Remembering the evident grief displayed by Altenberg, Werthen somehow doubted this as well; but it was in the realm of possibility.
‘The same could be true for Salten,’ Werthen added. ‘After all, he was frequently at the Bower for his interviews with Frau Mutzenbacher. Perhaps he also formed an association with Mitzi that he was not proud of? Like Schnitzler, he is engaged to be married.’
‘Why stop there?’ Gross asked. ‘Herr Bahr seems so protective of the image of Jung Wien. Might that be sufficient motive for him to get rid of bothersome young things who threaten his writers’ reputations?’
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.