Aidrean Ó Deághaidh crumpled the sheet in his fist and glanced out the train window. The conductor had already announced their approach to Praterstern Station, and the few passengers in the carriage had gathered their luggage and were proceeding toward the exit doors. The brakes squealed as the train slowed on its approach to the bridge crossing the Danube. Now the forested countryside vanished as the train plunged between the outer ring of Vienna’s ancient walls.
He waited until the final approach, then struck a match and burned the latest of his diary entries. He had begun these exercises under Doctor Loisg’s supervision—a means for sorting through the false and true memories. The art of recollection, Loisg called it. Now, these writings had to remain an ephemeral record, one he destroyed within moments of its creation, but the act gave him such necessary relief that he had continued the practice.
No more. It didn’t matter that he wrote in code, that few could make sense of his musings, even if they deciphered every word. Anything so personal would only provide hooks and claws to the enemy. Whoever that enemy might be.
Ó Deághaidh swept the ashes into his hand and deposited them in the nearest bin as he passed underneath the grand arches of the exit. In the square outside, he bought a grilled bockwurst and took a seat on a low wall surrounding a statue. Very little had changed since he last visited the city, at least on the surface. There were the usual crowds of blond, blue-eyed schoolboys. The carriages with Russian and Italian nobles. A company of Swiss mercenaries marching in formation. If anything, he counted more Turks and Moroccans, refugees from various civil wars. And pervading everything, a sense of threadbare opulence, of an empire that still dreamed of long-ago glory.
He finished off his wurst and wiped his face on his sleeve. The sun was sinking behind the tallest buildings. He would have to find a pension for the night, and soon. He recalled one from his previous travels, years ago. It was an ancient pile of brick and stone, surely as old as Vienna itself, but its beds were comfortable, and the breakfast generous.
Ó Deághaidh shifted his satchel to a more comfortable position and set off. A troupe of jugglers and magicians had staked out a largish space nearby, and the square had filled within the past ten minutes. He had to thread his way between the tourists and their children, who squealed in delight as two jugglers tossed glass balls into the air, sending showers of brilliantly colored sparks over the crowds.
The attack happened suddenly.
Just as Ó Deághaidh passed by the jugglers, one man snatched up two balls from the pile at his feet and hurled them at Ó Deághaidh. The balls hit the ground at his feet. The glass shattered into a firestorm. Ó Deághaidh leapt backward, but not quickly enough. A third ball struck him in the chest. He staggered and fell, choking from the acrid smoke. More flames, more smoke. A man flung his coat over Ó Deághaidh and pounded at the sparks. All around he heard an outcry, people calling for the police, others shouting to catch the villain before he escaped.
He was still trying to draw a breath when strong hands pulled him to his feet and bundled him away from the square. He tried to shake them off, explain he was not hurt, but his throat burned, and he could not stop coughing.
“Kämpfen Sie nicht so,” they told him. “Wir bringen Sie gleich zur Apotheke.”
His unwanted rescuers propelled him through a pair of doors, into a brightly lit shop. Down he went onto a cot. A pale doughy face, surrounded by an untidy fringe of hair, came into view. The stranger, a young man, muttered in a thick Austrian dialect as he speedily and professionally examined Ó Deághaidh. “Do not worry,” he said. “Those men ran, but we’ve summoned the police. I will tend to your burns.”
He gathered several vials of medicines, and a bowl of soapy water. But before he could attend to Ó Deághaidh, a voice, sharp and imperious, sounded from the next room. The apothecary glanced over his shoulder and scowled, but when the voice called out a second time, he hurried toward the front room. His appearance provoked a lengthy exchange. Ó Deághaidh recognized the young man’s patient drawl, interrupted by a woman’s shriller, more insistent voice as she described a constant ache of the teeth, and could he not prescribe a stronger medicine.
He checked his pockets. Nothing was missing. He still had his money. More important, he still had all the necessary papers to explain his presence in Vienna—passport, letters from a cousin in Wien, properly marked tickets. If they cared to look, the police would find nothing suspicious, and yet, Ó Deághaidh found a growing dislike for keeping to the identity Lord Ó Cadhla had provided him.
He eased to standing and made a cautious circuit of the room. A second door opened onto a short passageway with doors to either side, and one at the far end. There was a whiff of woodsmoke, and the stronger smell of stewing chicken and onions. Ó Deághaidh heard the sounds of splashing water, a child’s laugh, a woman’s reply.
He trod swiftly and softly to the door at the far end. Outside, wooden steps led down to a narrow alleyway lined with trash bins. Just then, the woman called out, “Na, Wilhelm. Kommst du endlich?” Then he was through the door and gliding down the alleyway to the open square beyond.
* * *
Five days later, Aidrean Ó Deághaidh entered the small Byzantine church of Sankt Barbara and dropped a few shilling coins into the offering box. He slid into the front row and bowed his head, taking a surreptitious glance of his surroundings as he did so. Most of the church remained in shadows, but sunlight poured through the stained-glass windows above, bathing the nave and communion rails in a rainbow of color. Two elderly women knelt before the youngish priest. The rest of the church remained empty, as he had expected.
Someone had penetrated Ó Deághaidh’s disguise. Not the woman in Paris—he’d told her nothing. Not the few obvious Frankonian agents who had tracked him from Paris into Catalonia. He knew he had eluded them. It had to be someone in the queen’s confidence. Lord Ó Cadhla, who had so carefully scripted this expedition. Or Lord Ó Breislin, whose experience lay in these regions.
A flicker of light caught his attention. He glanced back to see a tall man in a voluminous coat sidle into the second-to-last row of benches. That would be his contact—a man named Rainer Groer, forty-eight years old, ostensibly a dealer in rare books and curiosities, an occupation that often took him on jaunts through the remnants of the Austrian Empire. Groer was a relatively minor agent, but knowledgeable about the local politics.
Ó Deághaidh waited until he was certain Groer found the note, then sauntered down the aisle and through the church’s front doors. Outside, he hurried down the street and rounded the corner into the Barbaragasse, where he waited.
After the attack outside the train station, Ó Deághaidh had spent five days in a cheap pension, one he had never before visited, reviewing possible steps to take. No, recovering his nerve. Those men had not intended to kill him. Unbalance him, perhaps. Rattle him and make his judgment unreliable. He wanted to say they had failed, but the reoccurrence of his nightmares belied that.
So let us say I am stubborn.
Over the next few days, he had made his plans. He decided he would meet with Groer, extract whatever information he could, and sow his own carefully chosen clues for those who would surely question Groer afterward. Following Lord Ó Cadhla’s instructions, he had posted a coded message to the standard address. The message stated that Groer would find further details in the church of Sankt Barbara off the Postgasse, in the usual location. The building lay tucked behind a larger Dominican cathedral and several small temples of various faiths—a place ideally suited to such business.
Groer hurried down the church steps. Ó Deághaidh waited another moment, then followed. Taking a parallel street to the next intersection, he intercepted Groer as he rounded the corner, pushed the other man against the wall, and shoved a gun to his ribs.
“Mensch, was ist—”
“Silence,” Ó Deághaidh said in German. “I’m the man who wrote to you, Herr Groer. But I’ve received some chancy news, a
nd I would like your reassurance that we can speak in true privacy. Nod if you agree.”
The man jerked his head down and up.
“Very good,” Ó Deághaidh said. “You understand I am nervous. I might be forced to act hastily if I find myself compromised. For example, if you had a friend watching you—”
“None, but—”
“Hush. Speak only when I tell you. So, there is no friend. Anything else I should hear?” When Groer hesitated, he added, “If you have anything to tell me, other than no, you may speak.”
Groer shook his head. He was sweating, and his dirty blond hair was matted over his brow.
“Good. We shall walk together as good friends do.” Ó Deághaidh entwined his left arm around Groer’s and drew him close. He thrust his right hand with the gun through his pocket and toward Groer’s stomach. “Do not cry out; do not attempt to escape me,” he said softly. “Remember, I’ve had a desperate few days. I will gladly shoot you and never mind what comes next.”
They crossed a boulevard and entered a patchwork of lanes. Ó Deághaidh steered Groer through several turnings into a small courtyard, empty except for a pair of dogs quarreling over some bones. Opposite stood the wineshop Lord Ó Cadhla had named as a safe rendezvous. Ó Deághaidh knew he took a risk using it, but there were certain advantages in appearing careless.
A man in a grubby apron came from behind the counter, as they entered. “Naja, was wollt ihr?”
“Ein Zimmer. Und ein Krug Rotwein,” Ó Deághaidh said gruffly.
The man’s eyes narrowed at the mention of a room, but he only shrugged. “Also, gut. Zehn Schilling, bitte.”
Ó Deághaidh nudged Groer. “Come, my friend. You promised to pay this time.”
With a show of reluctance, Groer handed over a ten-schilling note. The man peered at it and grunted. “Upstairs. Second door on the right. I’ll send a girl with your wine.”
The room upstairs turned out to be little more than a closet with a couple of stools and a stained mattress flung in one corner. There was no table, but a plank bolted to the wall served the same purpose. Ó Deághaidh and Groer were hardly inside before a black-eyed girl appeared with a jug of red wine and two glasses of doubtful cleanliness. “You want company?” she said, without much enthusiasm.
“Not yet,” Ó Deághaidh said.
She scowled. “What’s the matter? You only like boys? Or just each other?”
Ó Deághaidh met her gaze steadily until she flushed. “No. We don’t like each other. Come back in half an hour, and we’ll talk about whether we like you.”
The door closed with a bang. Ó Deághaidh shoved Groer toward the stools. “Sit,” he said in Éireann. “You and I must talk.”
Groer dropped onto his seat. “You are taking too many chances,” he whispered in German.
Ó Deághaidh hooked the second stool closer and sat, keeping his gun trained on his companion. He filled both glasses and pushed one toward Groer. “What chances? Speaking in Éireann? Or coming here with you, when this is a known meeting place for agents?”
“Do not—” Groer swallowed. “Do not talk about those matters out loud. That man downstairs—he knows nothing about why I come here from time to time. When I do, I stay below and talk with friends, associates, while we drink.”
“Never upstairs?” Ó Cadhla had assured him it was not unusual.
“I used to,” Groer said. “But I suspect that girl listens.”
Ó Deághaidh nodded. “Very well. We talk quietly and drink our wine. That should not make anyone suspicious.”
Groer shrugged but he clearly was unhappy. He gulped down some wine and grimaced at its taste. “What is wrong?” he said in Éireann. “You asked for a meeting in the usual way. And I had word from the right people to expect you.” He paused and his lips twitched. “It was you, wasn’t it? The one attacked outside the train station? I read about the affair in the newspapers.”
Ó Deághaidh made a throwaway gesture. “If you know that, then you know why I’m taking extra precautions.”
“Verdammt be these precautions. You must report to the embassy at once. You cannot proceed if you are compromised.”
Ó Deághaidh laughed softly. “I do not intend to. But before I return to Éire, I want some information. For example, I would like to know more about the Anglians who are operating in this region. Specifically in Montenegro and the rest of the Balkans.”
Groer’s pale blue eyes narrowed. “I know nothing of any Anglians.”
Ó Deághaidh suppressed an exclamation—You knew this, he thought. You suspected it long before—but his voice remained cool. “Ah, then I was mistaken.”
His tone did not fool Groer. “What Anglians?” he demanded.
“It is not important, I tell you. Merely a supposition gone astray. The chief thing, the reason I am here, is the matter of Austria and Montenegro. Do you have any word about the negotiations between them?”
But Groer was not to be distracted. “There are no Anglians. Nor any matter between the Austrians and Montenegro, unless you count that business with the Serbs—
“What business with the Serbs?”
“The Serbs. Surely you know … Well, it’s just a rumor, and a new one at that.” He tossed back the rest of his glass of wine and stared longingly at the jug.
Ó Deághaidh refilled the man’s glass. “Go on.”
Groer took a swallow and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “They should have told you, but maybe there wasn’t time. You see, I heard the rumor just a few weeks ago—that this whole business between the Austrians and Montenegro is a farce. The Serbs are behind it all. Or rather, they are hand-in-hand with the Austrians, who are hand-in-hand with their supporters in Montenegro. Prince Danilo believes he is getting support for his ascension to kingship. His parliament believes they get an ally against Greater Serbia. In reality—”
The clues shifted into place, and Ó Deághaidh had to check himself from leaning forward eagerly. “In reality,” he said, “Serbia takes Montenegro, while Austria gains a bulwark against the Turks. I see.” And he did. It was such a simple reversal of expectations. But it was the implication of this missing news that troubled him the most. “You sent this information to your superiors?”
“Of course. What do you think?”
Of course. He ought to have foreseen that, as well. Ó Deághaidh tossed back the bitter, sour wine and slammed the empty glass onto the board. “What do I think? To be honest, I think you are a stupid, foolish man. Nearly as stupid and foolish as I am.”
He stood and flung the door open. The serving girl stepped back quickly, red-faced and stammering. “It was more than half an hour,” she said fiercely. “You said—”
“It was not close to half an hour,” Ó Deághaidh said. “But I am glad to find you here.”
He drew her close, caught a whiff of soap and yeast and sweat. The young woman’s mouth softened into a seductive smile. Her face was dirty, but her breasts were plump, and she had an animal attraction Ó Deághaidh could not deny. Was she another snare set for him?
I have not become so desperate, he thought. Not yet.
“So, you like me?” she said.
“Alas, no,” he said. “But I know my friend does.”
He shoved her into the room. She stumbled against Groer, who instinctively caught her in his arms. Ó Deághaidh slammed the door closed on them and ran down the stairs.
* * *
… With every passing mile, I find myself shedding the accumulated years, until once more, I am come back to those months following my studies in Vienna. It was then I set off on my grand journey through Europe. I traveled by train, by wagon, on foot. Like any enthusiast, I wanted to take in everything—every tone or gesture that differentiated the native Austrian, the immigrant Serb, the well-traveled Russian or Czech. It was that ability to drop myself into a country and a language that the Constabulary first took advantage of. Later, it was the queen who remembered my mathematical studies and sent me to Aw
veline City. Now I have circled around to the end of that circle, which is itself a new beginning …
He had long ago abandoned his temporary journal, but he found he could not break off these silent entries as he tramped along the backcountry trails. Vienna and that miserable room above the wineshop seemed a thousand leagues away; Osraighe and Cill Cannig had taken on a dreamlike quality. The hills and mountains lay behind him now and he traveled along a dirt road that descended into the heart of Montenegro, a high rocky plateau with the broad Cetinje River winding down to the sea. It was late morning. The air had already turned warm and shimmered with dust. In the distance, a rare balloon glided past, the sun glinting off its wires.
A jingling broke his reverie. He turned to see a farmer in his wagon just topping the previous rise. Ó Deághaidh stepped aside to let them pass, but just as the wagon drew alongside, a black and gray brindled hound loped up through the fields and barked. The farmer reined his horses to a stop and peered at him through rheumy eyes. “I nearly thought you were a ghost,” he said in a thick dialect of Štokavian. “Standing so still in the tall grass. Where are you bound, my friend?”
“To Budva,” Ó Deághaidh answered in the same language. “To buy passage on a ship. But tonight I hoped to sleep in Cetinje.”
“Eh. A traveler? But not from these hills or this valley. Are you Prussian?”
His tone was suspicious. Ó Deághaidh knew how he looked—unwashed and unshaved, his coat and trousers stained from weeks spent sleeping on the ground. He smiled and shook his head. “No, my friend. I was born in Austria, but my father came from the hills, from Tuzi. It was the Austrians who took him for their army.”
“Ah-ah.” The old man spat to one side. “God and Allah be thanked the Austrians cannot do that anymore. Though truthfully, I’d rather have them than the goddamned Prussians, who are like ants in the kitchen. Come, get you into my wagon. I can take you to Cetinje.”
Ó Deághaidh threw his knapsack up first, then climbed onto the seat beside the farmer. With a flick of his reins, the old man set the wagon creaking into motion. “So,” he said. “Your father hails from Tuzi.”
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