J. Jones - The Third Place

When they reached the Red Bridge, where Gorokhovaya Street crossed the Moyka, he determined to act. He caught up with the man and put a strong grip on his shoulder. The man spun around, muttering, ‘What the-’

He cut him off. ‘Citizen, your section chief at the Ministry of Agriculture hoped that I could track you down. It is imperative that you meet with him.’

‘Proschkova? What could he want at this time of day?’

‘Privy Councilor Proschkova,’ he said, improvising, ‘requests that you meet with him at a house quite near here, as a matter of fact. He sends his apologies, but deems it quite urgent.’

‘Urgent? But how?’ the bureaucrat said.

‘That is not for me to know, Councilor.’ He figured he was giving the man an upgrade in title, and noticed with satisfaction a trace of a smile on the man’s thick lips, still working the toothpick.

‘Well,’ he finally sighed, ‘I had other plans, but if Proschkova commands I must obey.’

He set off quickly across the bridge to the other side of the Moyka, making the bureaucrat scramble to keep up with him, giving him no time to think how irregular this all was.

He went several blocks toward the River Neva before he found a quiet street filled with large old apartment buildings. An elderly tenant was just exiting the front door of one and he quickly caught the door before it locked again. He held it politely for the bureaucrat.

‘But Proschkova lives nowhere near here.’

‘It is the house of a colleague,’ he explained, leading the man deeper into the large entryway. His instincts had been right; the apartment building had several staircases leading to different landings. The third staircase was deepest in the central foyer and it spiraled up to the left, creating a hidden space in the corner beneath.

‘The privy councilor said he would leave the key here,’ he said as he ducked under the staircase.

The bureaucrat waited by the staircase instead of following as he had hoped. More improvising, acting as if fumbling in the gloom of the stairwell.

‘Sorry, sir,’ he said. ‘My eyes have never been the same since Manchuria.’

This seemed to interest the man. As he ducked under the spiraling staircase, he said, ‘So you fought during the Boxer Rebellion.’

But he never heard the response to his question, for agent 302 struck him a sudden blow to the sternum in just the right place to disrupt the rhythm of the heart. The man made a grunting sound as he crumpled to the cobbled floor and was dead by the time the agent leaned over to check for a pulse. Now came a frenzied change of clothing; he had been right about the man’s size, for the clothes fit well. He left his old clothing and the body of the man – Nikolai Petrovich, as his document pouch identified him – under the stairs and quickly made his way out of the building without encountering anyone.

You make your luck, he told himself. You act with courage and fortitude and no one can stop you.

The rubles in the dead man’s pay packet purchased him a first-class seat on the Tallinn express; the suit of clothes guaranteed his continuing anonymity. He took a much-needed bath at the station before departure.

Soon he would be free.

As the train sped along the flat farmland, he peered through his own reflection in the glass, an instant doppelganger. It had been so for many years. Born Pietr Klavan, an Estonian who at one time had prospects of a career as a concert violinist, he had assumed numerous identities over the years. In Vienna he was Schmidt, representative of the Heisl Parfumerie; in Berlin he was Erlanger, a Hungarian rail engineer; in Warsaw he was de Koenig, the agent of a Dutch mining concern; in Zurich he was Axel Wouters, rubber merchant; and in Prague he was Maarkovsky, an importer of Polish vodka. He had posed as policeman, actor, wine grower and noble.

In each of those cities he had left dead bodies behind. Dead at the behest of his Russian handlers.

And it had been those same handlers who had turned against him, who had sent him off to the slow death of the katorga , the work camps in Siberia. They had to save their own careers for the death of a certain double agent in Vienna, and he was the sacrificial lamb.

But no longer.

Now he had another new identity: Herr Wenno.

He smiled at the thought. Wenno the warrior knight who would no longer fight the secret battles for the Russians but who would engage as his own man, his own warrior. An assassin for hire.

It was what he was best at; now it would be in his own service.

He awoke in the middle of the night, a troubled thought teasing at the back of his mind. Something left undone. A loose thread that might come unraveled. He turned onto his back; he would not sleep until he parsed this puzzle. And then it came to him. The under waiter; the colleague and perhaps the protege of the older man. Had those two spoken of him? Had the Herr Ober taken the younger man into his confidence?

There was no way to discover that. At least not quickly, and time was of the essence now. But he did know the other waiter was watching him when he spoke to Herr Karl. He could provide a description.

No. This was not a time for subtlety.

It was a time for action. His handler at the Russian training school had taught him that axiom: when in doubt, strike.

‘Between Frau Schratt’s old rivals at the Burgtheater and those at court, I think there are enough suspects to go around,’ Gross said, finishing his brioche with a flourish.

There had been no opportunity to talk about the case last night, for Werthen’s parents had joined them for dinner and they had been sworn to secrecy.

Berthe, however, was a different matter.

‘And what about the son?’ she offered. ‘He may have issues with the emperor. There could be jealousy or anger at the man who has taken so much emotional charge from his mother, who did not come to her aid after the death of the empress. And there is the fact, as I learned from Herr Sonnenthal, of the grandfather executed long ago on the order of a very young Franz Josef.’

‘It’s a possibility,’ Werthen allowed. ‘But it is also dangerous ground, questioning the son of Frau Schratt.’

‘In fact, I have him on my provisionary list,’ Gross said, eyeing the remaining brioche in the basket. Frau Blatschky had gone out early this morning to the Elias Bakery to fetch the crimin-ologist’s favorite breakfast rolls. ‘However, from what one hears, the emperor has treated the young man rather well, seeing to his education and to prospects in the foreign service.’

Berthe had a sudden inspiration: thinking of Toni Schratt reminded her further of the seance she attended over the weekend. It was a performance that seemed guaranteed to embarrass the young man. And according to Berthe’s friend, Rosa Mayreder, it might very well be part of a concerted effort on the part of Princess Dumbroski to undermine Frau Schratt’s role as the hostess of choice in Vienna.

She mentioned the princess and was met by dumbfounded stares from the men.

‘You actually think the woman would hire someone to steal a compromising letter from Frau Schratt just to gain a social advantage? And risk having the emperor turn against her?’ Werthen was appalled at the idea.

‘She fought a duel over a flower arrangement,’ Berthe said flatly. ‘Yes. Where Princess Dumbroski is concerned, I think anything is possible.’

‘Well,’ Gross said, finally giving in to temptation and taking the last roll. ‘It looks like we all have our hands full, then.’

‘I was rather hoping you could follow up on the Herr Karl affair,’ Werthen said to his wife. ‘Perhaps approach the archduke or Prince Montenuovo to get an appointment with Czerny at the Hofburg.’