Sydney Jones - The Keeper of Hands

‘The one who warned you about a double agent in the Bureau?’ Gross said.

‘Precisely. I received a communiqué from him this morning. It seems military intelligence in St Petersburg has been in a barking match with the Russian Foreign Office over the death of this double agent. Each accusing the other of incompetence, and looking for a scapegoat to save face. It appears they found one with the return of the man who was controlling their double agent.’

‘Schmidt!’ Gross said the name as if cursing.

‘One would assume so,’ said the Archduke. ‘My agent merely noted that the controller running the double agent was appropriately chastised. I use his word: chastised.’

Werthen heard Gross emit a low growling sound.

‘What are we to assume that means, your Highness?’ Werthen asked.

Franz Ferdinand shrugged, a gesture that made him appear less than regal. ‘Knowing the Russians, it would probably be either a bullet in the back of the head or a long vacation in Siberia. Either way, gentlemen, I don’t think we will be plagued by the man in future. It would seem that, at long last, justice has been done. For quite the wrong reasons, but justice nonetheless.’

Gross suddenly stood tall, chest thrust out. ‘It is good of you to bring this information, your Highness. A kind thought.’

Indeed, the news seemed to make Gross come alive again and to reassert his overbearing attitude. Werthen never thought he would entertain such a sentiment, but he had actually missed the Doktor Gross of old — supercilious, autocratic, officious.

They said their goodbyes, the Archduke politely declining an invitation to a cup of tea.

As they walked back to the lawn party, Gross sniffed once and then said, ‘I could have told you that would happen to Schmidt. The man was a fool to return to his masters. My prediction exactly.’

It was good to have the old Gross back, Werthen thought.

Returning to the others, Werthen told the news first to Berthe, who seemed to breathe a sigh of relief, knowing Schmidt was no longer a threat. The bombing of Werthen’s office was still uppermost in her mind. Meanwhile, Gross was entertaining the others with his own version of events.

‘Now what was it you had to tell me?’ Werthen asked his wife. ‘Something about the law-office renovation?’

She put her mouth to his ear, whispering, and his smile turned into a sigh of love and happiness.

‘You’re sure?’

She nodded. ‘It’s been more than a month. You know how regular I am.’

He wanted to shout out for everyone to know. Instead, he took the cup of tea that Berthe handed to him.

Gross, finishing with his blandishments about Schmidt, turned to Werthen and saw such a blessed look of happiness on the man’s face that he was indeed glad for his little bit of subterfuge at the news Franz Ferdinand had imparted. No need to spoil the nice tennis party.

Pure nonsense, of course, both the news and his feigned relief. For Schmidt was a survivor. He would never return to St Petersburg if he thought such a fate awaited him.

No. They would, Gross feared, hear more of Schmidt in the future.