For Morris Roth, "witty Orthodox rabbi" had always been something of an oxymoron. Unlike Jason, who'd lived in Israel for a year as a student, Morris and Judith had never done more than visit the country for a couple of weeks at a time. Morris had not had much contact with Orthodox Judaism in the United States he'd come from, since his area of the country was dominated by Reform Judaism. So his main personal impression of Orthodox rabbis came from what he'd seen in Israel-which, to him, had been their constant interference in Israel's politics, their narrow-minded obsessions, the readiness with which they threw their political weight around. He'd been particularly angry at their refusal-well, some of them-to allow their adherents to serve in Israel's armed forces, at the same time that they demanded those armed forces be used to carry out policies they wanted.
He had to remind himself-as Judith reminded him constantly-that they'd left that world behind. There was no Israel in this universe. Not yet, at least; and not for some time to come, if ever. The rabbinate that existed here was one that had been shaped by the life of Jews in central and eastern Europe's ghettos and shtetls. It simply wasn't fair for Morris Roth to pile atop Mordechai Spira's head all the sins of a rabbinate in a different time, in a different universe.
He began to say some words that would have been simply friendly. But he'd barely begun before he heard noises coming from the entrance. The sounds were very faint, seeming to come from a great distance, but Morris thought he recognized them.
Gunshots. Then, a moment later Lots of gunshots.
"It's starting," he said. "Finally."
3
Ellie leaned back in the chair before the console, and took a deep breath.
"Well, Duke, there it is. Finished. Finally."
Wallenstein examined the telephone center, his eyes bright with interest. "And you have the people trained to operate it, yes?"
Ellie nodded. "Three, so far. Enough to keep shifts going round the clock-for a while, anyway. You'll need to give them some time off, though, now and then."
Wallenstein was frowning a little, as he often did listening to Ellie's idiosyncratic blend of German and English. Belatedly, she realized that the expression "round the clock" wouldn't have meant much to him. True, they had clocks in the seventeenth century. But the devices were rare and expensive, too much so for their habits to have entered popular idiom yet.
Wallenstein shrugged irritably. "I see no problem." He jerked his head toward a door. "They will sleep here, anyway."
The new telephone center, at Wallenstein's insistence, had been built directly adjoining his personal suite in the palace. He'd even had living quarters connected to it prepared for the eventual telephone operators. Ellie thought that was an odd arrangement. But, given Wallenstein's shaky health-not to mention the terrible wounds that Julie Mackay had inflicted upon him at the Alte Veste, which he would never fully recover from even with the help of American medical care-she could understand it. Wallenstein had to spend a lot of his time, now, resting in his bed. But with a telephone literally at his fingertips, he would have the wherewithal to continue managing the empire he intended to build for himself. Ellie and Len had already built and put in place a direct phone connection between Wallenstein's bed in his private room and the telephone center itself.
By now, Ellie had gotten to know Wallenstein well enough not to be afraid to contradict him. The Duke of Friedland was insistent upon his privileges, and had a very harsh way with anyone who was impolite to him. But he did not bridle at being opposed over a matter of substance, as long as it was done respectfully and not too insistently. And, fortunately, he cut more slack for Ellie than he did for just about anyone else except his wife Isabella and his nurse, Edith Wild. And Pappenheim, of course.
Ellie shook her head. "Duke, this is not that simple a system to operate. It takes a lot of mental alertness-at least, assuming you wind up using it as often as you think you will. What I mean is-"
There was an interruption at the door. More precisely, in the large room beyond that served Wallenstein's private suite as an entry salon. A man was pushing his way in, overriding the protests of the guard stationed at the entrance to the suite. There seemed to be several men standing in the corridor beyond, as well.
Ellie recognized him. It was Eugen Rossbach-Ritter Rossbach, as he insisted on being called-one of the mercenary captains who had attached himself to Wallenstein's service. Wallenstein was rather partial to the man. Ellie despised him, herself-but then, admittedly, Ellie despised most of the mercenaries who surrounded the Duke of Friedland. Perhaps oddly, Pappenheim-in some ways the most frightening of them all-was the one she disliked the least.
Wallenstein, now frowning fiercely, stepped out of the small telephone center into the main salon. "What is it, Rossbach? I am occupied at the moment."
Rossbach, still fending off the protesting guard with one hand, waved a document with the other. "Yes, my apologies-but you must see this immediately! It's from the emperor!"
Ellie rose and came to the doorway. Wallenstein took a step forward to take the message, which Rossbach extended toward him.
It suddenly dawned on Ellie that the three men with Rossbach were coming into the main salon, now that the guard was distracted. Why?
One of them-then the other two-reached for their swords. Without thinking, Ellie grabbed Wallenstein by his collar and yanked him backward.
The Duke cried out in protest. Rossbach snarled. Then-Ellie never saw the stabbing itself-the guard suddenly screamed and staggered forward. Behind him, as he fell to his knees, she could see one of Rossbach's companions with his sword now in his hand. The tip of it was covered in blood.
Wallenstein cried out again. A curse of some sort, Ellie thought. Rossbach shouted something, dropped the document and drew his own sword.
Ellie hauled Wallenstein back into the telephone room. He stumbled on the way and fell backward, landing on his rump. She just had time to slam the door shut in Rossbach's face.
Then, fumbled to find the lock which Didn't exist.
Goddamit! There'd been no reason, after all, to put a lock on that door. In fact, Wallenstein would have been furious if they'd done so. It was his telephone center, not that of the men who would be operating it for him.
She heard Rossbach's fist slamming the door. Then, a moment later, a much heavier wham as his boot slammed into it.
Ellie's fear and fury were, for a moment, penetrated by an absurd impulse to cackle with laughter. That idiot Rossbach thinks the door IS locked.
But it probably wouldn't take him long to figure it out. And besides-another wham-even if he didn't, that door wasn't really that solid. He'd be able to kick it in easily enough.
Wallenstein was now rising to his feet. Unfortunately, in his own personal suite, the Duke wasn't carrying his sword. They were both unarmed.
"Bullshit!" Ellie snarled. She stooped over and rummaged through the big tool chest that had been in the room for weeks now. An instant later, she came up with a modern Crescent wrench-Len's 12-incher-as well as the two-foot cheater pipe he used for extra leverage when he needed it.
She tossed the pipe to Wallenstein and hefted the wrench. It wasn't much, but it would have to do.
Wham!
Wham!-and the door came off the hinges. Rossbach and another man started pushing through the doorway, their swords level.
WHAM! WHAM!
Both of them sailed through the opening, as if shot from a cannon, their swords flying out of their hands. Wallenstein clubbed Rossbach down, but Ellie missed the other man. Her swing had been wild, accompanied by a shriek of fear as she dodged the sword sailing ahead of him. Now it was her turn to fall on her ass.