Fatal Lies

euphemistically, “while a comrade opened his safe. The fool made so much noise that von Stoger picked up a poker and went to see what was going on. My comrade panicked. It was most unfortunate.”

“And what about me?” said Liebermann. “Was I part of your mission too?”

“You flatter yourself, Herr Doctor. We met by chance.”

“In which case… you swiftly calculated that I might have some other use: the provision of an alibi, perhaps?”

“If this is to be a frank exchange of views,” said Trezska, “then I must admit, the idea did cross my mind; however, that was all. I sought your further acquaintance because I felt indebted to you. We Hungarians are nothing if not appreciative. Moreover, I found you very…” she paused before adding, “…desirable.”

A gust of wind lashed the side of Liebermann's face. A fresh cascade of water tumbled from the second story, contributing yet more volume to the existing downpour.

“I see from your expression,” said Trezska, “that you find my candid admission distasteful—unbecoming of a lady? Of course, if I were a man, you would think nothing of it. You are not nearly so enlightened as you suppose, Herr Doctor. Now, before I take my leave—which I really must—tell me, what are you doing here? I cannot recall issuing you with an invitation.”

“I came here to confront you.”

“Why? For what purpose?”

“To see if my deductions were correct.”

Trezska laughed. “Another of your flaws, Herr Doctor: intellectual vanity! Well, at the risk of aggravating your conceit, I must applaud you! Your deductions were indeed correct. Which brings me to my next question: How ever did you become so well informed? There are aides in the Hofburg who have never heard of Studie U. And as for my code name… If you hadn't rendered our poor friend here unconscious”—she gestured toward von Bulow—”I would be considering whether or not you had been recruited by the secret service.”

“And what if I was?” said Liebermann.

Before she could answer, a male voice resounded across the courtyard: “Don't move.”

Liebermann turned. Coming out of the arcade was a swarthy-looking young man. He was holding a gun and walking straight toward him.

78

THE FOREST WAS VIRTUALLY IMPENETRABLE; however, the woodman was able to find his way by following a series of marks he had made on the tree trunks with his knife: gouges, gashes, and occasionally a rough cross. His furs were heavy with rain, and the sack he was carrying had become burdensome.

No one ever passed this way. Even the local people kept a safe distance. It wasn't only that the little forest was remote and inhospitable. There were stories: of wild animals, of murderous Gypsies—and of children who had entered and never come out again.

It was true that Gypsies were unaccountably fond of parking their brightly painted caravans close by. Moreover, they traveled immense distances to get there—from Russia, Galicia, and the Carpathians. They rarely stayed for more than a day.

Once, the woodman had overheard some men in the Aufkirchen inn gossiping about the forest. Someone had said that the king of the Ruthenian Gypsies had buried a hoard of stolen treasure in the middle of it. A young man who was staying at the inn had insisted that they should saddle up their horses at once. They should ride out to this forest, equipped with lamps and shovels, and they might return the very same night, fabulously rich. But the older men laughed uneasily. It was only a legend—and they plied the young man with so much drink that he fell off his stool and had to be carried to his room.

The woodman emerged in a small clearing. In the center was an ancient stone well and a tumbledown shack. Thick smoke was coming from the chimney, and the air was filled with an acrid odor. He lumbered over to the entrance and knocked gently.

“Come in.” The voice was old and cracked.

The woodman pulled the door open and went inside.

In the center of the room was an open fire over which a black cauldron was suspended. Only a few tongues of flame danced around the steaming logs, but they supplied enough light to reveal the squalid surroundings: a dirty pallet bed, bottles, a shelf of earthenware pots, and several cages on the floor. The cages were occupied, and green eyes flashed behind the chicken wire.

Next to the cauldron an old woman sat on a low bench. She had a schoolmaster's black cloak wrapped around her shoulders, and she wore a necklace made from the bones of animals. Her hair was long and gray, and when she smiled, her lips receded to reveal a row of blackened teeth. The upper central incisors were missing.

“Is it him?” she croaked.

The woodman nodded and dropped the jute sack next to the cauldron. Zhenechka got up and hobbled over. Reaching into a worn leather pouch, she produced a silver coin, which she pressed into the woodman's hand.

“Good,” she said. “Very good.”

She was delighted with the woodman's find—and could put it to many irregular uses.

79

“PUT YOUR HANDS ABOVE YOUR HEAD.”

The man was wearing a shabby coat, a floppy hat tilted at an acute angle, and a long embroidered scarf. Black curly hair fell from behind his exposed ear, and his mustache was so well waxed that the wind and rain hadn't displaced a single hair. It projected out from his face, defiantly horizontal.

Liebermann obeyed.

“Don't look at me—turn back round,” the man continued.

“This is quite unnecessary, Lazar,” said Trezska. “Herr Dr. Liebermann is a friend. Had he not come to my assistance”—she gestured toward the supine body of von Bulow—”everything would now be over.”

Liebermann felt the barrel of the gun dig into the back of his neck.

“No,” said the man. “He's not our friend: he's a friend of the fat detective—the one who was following me. I told you not to mess around—not with so much at stake. Now look what's happened.”

Trezska looked down at Liebermann. “Ah, now I see why you are so well informed.”

“Well informed?” asked the man. “What does he know?”

“He knows about Studie U.“

“Then we must kill him.”

“I have no idea what Studie U is!” Liebermann protested. “I am very well acquainted with Inspector Rheinhardt—the person whom I think you just referred to as the fat detective—and I sometimes help him with his inquiries. His assistant overheard a conversation between this gentleman—Inspector von Bulow—and the commissioner. Studie U and the Liderc were discussed.” The gunman took a sharp intake of breath. “Neither Inspector Rheinhardt nor I,” Liebermann continued, “have the slightest idea what Studie U is, beyond the obvious—that it is a document that must contain some highly sensitive information. As for your code name…” Liebermann appealed to Trezska. “You will allow, I hope, that you gave me certain reasons for suspicion on the Kohlmarkt, and I am not an absolute fool.”

Before Trezska could respond, the man interjected, “He's lying.”

The gunman's intention to fire his weapon was reflected in Trezska's horrified expression.

“No,” she shouted. “Wait!”

“What for?”