‘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.’