The Keeper of Hands

by Sydney J Jones

  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.

  FOURTEEN

  It was Saturday and, cases or no, Werthen was determined to spend time with his family at his country home in Laab im Walde.

  The morning dawned with clear skies, and the smell of fresh earth coming through the open bedroom window. Werthen got up early, leaving Berthe and Frieda to sleep in. Donning his lederhosen and a linen shirt, he took a walk around what locals referred to as ‘the farm’. The rye grass that Stein – his father’s steward at Hohelände – had planted several weeks earlier was shooting up through the black soil: eager green spears of life so fragile-looking yet so hardy. The sight of the grass growing filled him with a sudden pride in his property.

  Perhaps a lawn tennis court would not be such a bad idea after all, he thought. Perhaps his parents building nearby would also be less than the disaster he feared.

  The warm sun was making an optimist of him. He filled his lungs with morning air, and walked back to the house to prepare breakfast. He was becoming a dab hand in the kitchen with these weekends spent away from the ministrations of Frau Blatschky. A five-minute egg was his specialty; and coffee that was surprisingly drinkable.

  Fresh Semmeln were waiting, nestled in a gingham napkin in a basket on the doorstep as he came back to the house. He put his hand to the crusts: they were still warm. The local gasthaus at the crossroads delivered the breakfast rolls each morning they were in occupancy.

  Life was good, he thought, as he picked up the basket and went inside.

  For the next ten minutes he occupied himself so thoroughly with breakfast preparations that he was quite unaware of the arrival of visitors, until an insistent knocking at the kitchen door brought him out of his reverie. He wiped his hands on the apron he loved to wear, a gift from Berthe purchased from the kitchen of the Hotel Imperial.

  He opened the door and there stood Gross, cheeks flushed red and bowler in hand. His balding pate glistened in the morning sun.

  Gross’s discerning eyes went from the lederhosen to the apron, and a wry smile appeared.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt this lovely domestic scene.’

  ‘Good morning to you, too, Gross. What brings you to the countryside? I thought you were allergic to fresh air.’

  ‘Invite me in, Werthen,’ he replied. ‘I need a cup of coffee.’

  Over Gross’s shoulder Werthen could see a pferdelose Kutsche, horseless carriage, chuffing exhaust in the early morning air.

  ‘Nor did I think you were a fan of modern transport.’

  ‘Coffee, Werthen, please. I will explain.’

  They sat at the pine table, both sipping at the coffee. Gross, learning that Werthen had brewed it, eyed it with suspicion, but was soon won over.

  ‘I have a feeling you are going to ruin my weekend,’ Werthen finally said.

  ‘It was not my intention. Events, however, outpace us.’
/>   ‘I thought I heard voices.’

  Werthen and Gross turned to see Berthe standing in the doorway between the sitting room and kitchen, wearing a fashionable Japanese kimono as a bathrobe.

  ‘Frau Meisner.’ Gross stood and nodded his head at her.

  ‘Please sit, Gross. You haven’t come to ruin our weekend, have you?’

  Accused twice of the same crime, Gross was human enough to hang his head guiltily.

  ‘I assure you—’

  ‘It’s alright, Gross,’ Werthen said. Then to Berthe, ‘Coffee?’

  ‘Mmm.’

  He took this as assent, and filled a cup for her. A sleep wrinkle scarred her left cheek. She yawned as she sat to join them.

  ‘Frieda could sleep through a hurricane,’ she said, taking the cup happily. ‘Whatever are you doing riding in one of those machines, Gross? The stink woke me up.’

  Gross sighed. ‘I am simply the messenger, good folk. Please do not kill me.’

  ‘The messenger of what?’ Werthen said. ‘And how are we outpaced by events, as you say?’

  ‘All will be explained,’ Gross said. ‘But meanwhile we have been summoned.’

  ‘The weekend, Gross. I will have a weekend with my family.’

  ‘Archdukes do not respect weekends.’

  ‘No.’ Berthe said it as if it were an expletive.

  ‘Franz Ferdinand?’ Werthen said in wonder.

  ‘The very same.’ Gross once again eyed the apron and lederhosen. ‘You might want to change for the occasion.’

  Their driver turned out to be the loquacious type, which was fine by Werthen, for even though he and Gross sat on the back bench of the open carriage, anything they said could be overheard. Instead, they listened to Private Ferdinand Porsche as he extolled the virtues of the machine carrying them at a brisk pace along the dirt roads of the Vienna Woods towards Vienna.

  ‘She’s a beauty of a vehicle, and that’s for sure,’ the young man enthused. ‘What we call a hybrid. Runs on both gas and electricity.’

  ‘Ingenious,’ Gross said through tight lips as he held on to the side rail of the bench with a fearful grip.

  ‘The very word, sir,’ Porsche said, glancing back at them from time to time, his youthful face made to look older by a wide hussar’s moustache. ‘She’ll do upward of sixty kilometers an hour if I let her loose.’

  Which statement made Gross audibly gulp.

  ‘Perhaps we can save the high speeds for the race track,’ Werthen advised. ‘This is a comfortable pace.’

  Werthen soon understood why Gross’s cheeks were red when he arrived this morning. Sitting high above the road as they were, the wind played at their faces as they sped along the lanes. A pair of goggles would not go amiss, he thought. They both soon took their hats off, to stop them blowing away.

  ‘I was none too pleased when I got my call-up notice,’ Porsche said. ‘That’s not to say I am not a loyal Austrian, born in Bohemia. “Ferdinand,” I said to myself when I saw the notice, “Ferdinand, you’re off to the Balkans to some lonely outpost for two years.” Instead, I became the chauffeur to the Archduke himself. Quite an honor.’

  ‘It is indeed,’ Werthen said, enjoying the young man’s enthusiasm. ‘Had you much experience with such vehicles?’

  This brought a honking laugh from the private. ‘Sorry, sir. Not to be rude, but yes, I have a fair amount of experience. I designed this little buggy myself.’

  ‘You did?’ Gross spluttered.

  ‘The Lohner-Porsche system, it’s called. Porsche. That would be yours truly.’

  Werthen had, of course, heard of Jacob Lohner, who produced carriages for Franz Joseph as well as various other European royals. Lohner had also begun production of an electric horseless carriage in his Floridsdorf factory. Lohner was naturally the name one remembered. Just as with Martini & Rossi’s vermouth. Who ever remembered the Rossi part? Poor Porsche, Werthen thought. Destined to obscurity because his name came second.

  ‘Bravo for you,’ Werthen said with gusto, as if to make up for the man’s eventual anonymity.

  ‘It’s the future, I always say. We are riding into the future.’

  Gross, Werthen noticed, closed his eyes briefly at this comment, as if he desired a time machine traveling in the opposite direction.

  Before they realized it, they had reached macadamized roads leading to Vienna’s fourth district and the Belvedere, where Franz Ferdinand made his office. They had made the Archduke’s acquaintance once before, in 1898, when investigating a case that took them to the very doors of the Hofburg, the Habsburg seat of power.

  Werthen wondered what the Archduke could have in mind for them this time.

  Soon their vehicle pulled into the long circular drive of the Lower Belvedere. Franz Ferdinand, as heir apparent to the Austrian throne, was eager to assume some leadership position and impatient with his uncle, Franz Josef, who seemed to be living for ever; the old man had already been ruling for over half a century. The Archduke had therefore installed at this former palace of Prince Eugene of Savoy what was often referred to as ‘the Clandestine Cabinet’ – a sort of shadow General Staff, formally known as the Military Chancellery, ready to assume power when his uncle stepped down or died. Thus, he kept his hand in both military and diplomatic matters, often at odds with his uncle and with the General Staff, and always an enemy of the Court Chamberlain, Prince Montenuovo, who protected court etiquette and greatly disapproved of Franz Ferdinand’s morganatic marriage to a ‘commoner’. The Archduke’s wife, Sophie von Chotek, was a mere countess with just sixteen quarterings of major nobility in her blood line, far too few to make an adequate Habsburg match, according to the Court Chamberlain, who himself was the product of a less than appropriate marriage between the Habsburg Archduchess Marie Louise and an officer of her guard. All of Vienna followed this enmity with the eager expectancy of an audience at a Lehar operetta. What new indignity would the Court Chamberlain submit the Archduke and his wife to next? Would Franz Ferdinand ever get his own back on Montenuovo? Thus far, the Archduke had sought revenge simply by spending as much time away from Vienna as he could, ensconced in his Bohemian castle of Konopiste.

  A liveried servant awaited them at the columned entrance to the Lower Belvedere. They descended from the horseless carriage, bid adieu to the resourceful Private Porsche, and followed the servant not inside to the Archduke’s offices but along the side of the massive building to the gardens. Just as with their first meeting with Franz Ferdinand, they once again met in his rose garden. The Archduke, in addition to being a frustrated heir apparent to Franz Josef’s extreme longevity and an ardent hunter, was an enthusiastic gardener; and roses were his specialty.

  Just as last time, Franz Ferdinand was at work in the rose beds, in a light-blue cavalry tunic and red breeches. His secateurs snipped at the long-stemmed tea roses while a liveried servant gathered the stems into a basket for bouquets.

  Missing today was the array of medals the Archduke had worn last time, Werthen noticed as they approached. He was still amazed at the diminutive size of the man; in photographs he always appeared larger than life.

  As they drew nearer, Franz Ferdinand turned to face the pair. His rather bulging oversized bright-blue eyes twinkled as he recognized them.

  ‘Ah, so you have accepted my invitation.’

  ‘One hardly refuses an Archduke, your Imperial and Royal Highness,’ Gross said.

  A sardonic grin softened the Archduke’s features, making his moustache quiver. ‘So you know the proper address for a Crown Prince? Court etiquette from a criminalist. Bravo, Doktor Gross. And you, Herr Advokat,’ he said, turning his glistening eyes on Werthen. ‘None too worse the wear I see for your duel.’

  ‘No, your Highness.’

  ‘An interesting solution to our little problem,’ Franz Ferdinand said, referring to Werthen’s desperate gambit several years ago.

  A tall, lanky figure appeared out of the shadows deeper in the garden.

  ‘Yes,
Duncan. Please join us. You two remember my bodyguard, I am sure.’

  Both Gross and Werthen nodded.

  Duncan had saved their lives more than once in that earlier adventure. The scar down his cheek gave the Scotsman a ferocious appearance, though in actuality it was merely the result of a terrier bite and the subsequent ministrations of an incompetent surgeon when he was a boy.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ Duncan said, tipping his hat to them. He managed to place a thick glottal stop into the English word, imbuing it with a heavy Scots accent, which reminded Werthen that Duncan came into the Archduke’s service after saving Franz Ferdinand’s life on a Highland hunting expedition.

  ‘I never had a chance to thank you for your service,’ Werthen said.

  ‘No need to mention it, sir,’ the wraith-like Scot responded.

  ‘But to business,’ Franz Ferdinand said, handing the secateurs to a servant, who departed, leaving the four of them alone in the garden.

  Franz Ferdinand waited until the servant was well out of earshot. He cleared his throat. ‘Feels like rain.’

  The sky overhead was still radiantly blue.

  ‘The weather can be changeable this time of year, your Highness,’ Gross replied. There was, however, a sarcastic edge to his voice that did not escape the Archduke.

  Franz Ferdinand smiled again. ‘Yes, quite right. I should get to the matter at hand. After all, it is the sacred weekend, is it not? I understand that the populace has grown quite fond of its weekends. Leisure time, I believe it is called. I shall soon return you to your weekend, never fear. But, as with the last time we met, I have information that you might want.’

  Which meant, Werthen translated, the Archduke wanted to use them to do some of his own dirty work.

  ‘I understand that you are looking into the death of the unfortunate Count Joachim von Ebersdorf.’

  ‘That we are,’ Gross said.

  ‘May I inquire why?’

  Both Gross and Werthen paused a moment, glancing at one another.