Clara found herself gazing at the open veranda door and wishing that Lieutenant Schreker would be the next person to step out. And that was exactly what happened. Her heart was suddenly beating faster-and unaccountably she found herself a little breathless.
The handsome officer stood tall and straight-backed, enjoying the spectacular view. Turning to find a seat, he spotted Clara instantly, smiled, and marched across the terrace.
“Good morning, gnadige fraulein.”
“Good morning, Lieutenant Schreker. I trust you slept well?”
“Very well, and what a beautiful morning it is.”
“Yes-very beautiful.”
The sun had burnished the officer's blond hair.
“May I join you for breakfast?” Clara glanced at the open doors. The officer read her thoughts and, wary of impropriety, added, “I presume your splendid aunt will be along shortly.”
Clara raised her eyebrows, parted her lips, and-assuming her most flirtatious expression-replied, “I hope not.”
84
Rheinhardt sat in his office at the Schottenring station. There was nothing more to be done. The palace had been informed and a number of plainclothes officers were keeping the Masonic charity Humanitas under surveillance. He would soon join them.
The inspector absentmindedly opened his desk and discovered a bottle of slivovitz and a bag of marzipan mice. He had purchased the mice some time ago as a treat for his daughters but had forgotten to take them home. Unable to resist, he took one of the mice from the bag and was about to put it into his mouth when he noticed the creature's expression. It was a little masterpiece of the confectioner's art, capturing exactly the murine equivalent of resignation. Rheinhardt assumed this was intentional. Thus, children could bite their heads off with equanimity, knowing that each mouse had already accepted its fate.
Rheinhardt wished he could do the same.
There is nothing more to be done.
Suddenly he was gripped by a superstitious sentiment that his fate and that of the mouse had become connected: if he ate the mouse, he would be colluding with the forces of destiny. He did not like the idea that things were preordained and the feeling of impotence that came with it. He dropped the mouse back into the bag and hoped that the animal's reprieve would be translated into corresponding good fortune for him.
Aware of the irrationality of his behavior, Rheinhardt imagined the censorious gaze of his friend Liebermann. The young doctor could not abide superstition, and the inspector felt quietly ashamed of his desperate act.
Earlier, he had tried calling Liebermann on the telephone. He had spoken to Ernst, the doctor's serving man, who had not been informed of his master's whereabouts. Rheinhardt had then tried the hospital, where he learned that Doctor Liebermann was not expected until the following day. Finally, he had asked Haussmann to take a look in one or two of Liebermann's favorite coffeehouses.
It was not necessary to speak to Liebermann. Yet Rheinhardt had been hoping that his friend might be able to provide him with one last crucial insight. Of course, this was, like pardoning the mouse, another sign of desperation. If Liebermann had anything more to say, he would surely have contacted him. Liebermann was hardly likely to forget the significance of the date. Even so, Rheinhardt was haunted by a curiously persistent need to speak to Liebermann-to go over Olbricht's diary entry just one more time.
There was a knock on the door.
“Come in.”
It was Haussmann. “Sorry, sir. No luck.”
“Very well,” said Rheinhardt. “We had better get going.”
85
Liebermann stood beside Stefan Kanner, attempting-somewhat unsuccessfully-to feign familiarity with the ceremony that was taking place. After much deliberation, the venerable had given him special dispensation to attend. But he had stipulated that the outsider should be present only for the initiation, and that he would not be permitted to mingle with any of the brethren prior to the opening of formal proceedings. Moreover, the old man had demanded that Liebermann should take a solemn oath of secrecy. He must never reveal to anyone-especially his associates in the security office- what he was about to see. Consequently, Liebermann had been confined to a small antechamber. While he had been waiting there, Kanner had given him notice of what to expect and had provided him with clothing suitable for the occasion. It was only after the temple was almost full that Kanner guided Liebermann to their designated places among the most junior members of the fraternity.
An introductory ritual was in progress, during which Herr Losch and his sergeants seemed to be reciting from memory a kind of Masonic catechism. In addition, there was a lot of general activity: the great bronze doors kept opening and closing as high-ranking officials departed and returned.
Herr Losch was much dignified by his office. He occupied a big wooden throne and wore around his neck a V- shaped collar of red silk. Attached to the bottom of the collar was a large letter G, superimposed upon a circle of radiant gold spokes. A small table covered in scarlet drapery had been erected to the right of the throne, which permitted the venerable to use his gavel. When the venerable spoke, the rich acoustics of the subterranean temple imbued his voice with otherwise absent gravitas.
Liebermann was not registering the words of the introduction. He was still somewhat overwhelmed by the scale and design of Elysium. It reminded him of the Stadttempel-the synagogue where Clara had wanted to be married. (A stab of guilt made his heart palpitate.) The Stadttempel was a secret meeting place, built in less liberal times when laws enacted under Josef II had determined that all synagogues would be hidden from public view. The most striking similarity, though, was the ceiling, which-like the Stadttempel-was blue and studded with gold stars. Masonic symbology seemed to borrow extensively from the rabbinical tradition: an epic mural showed the Ark of the Covenant and Jacob's ladder ascending toward a letter from the Hebrew alphabet. Perhaps this was why Pan- German nationalists were so fond of the slur “Jew Mason.”
Although the temple was equipped with gas lamps, none of them had been lit. Instead, light was provided by numerous randomly distributed three-branch candlesticks. Unfortunately, Elysium was too cavernous to be fully illuminated by such modest means and Liebermann was troubled by the abundance of shadowy recesses. Each one could provide Olbricht with ample opportunity for concealment.
The venerable's voice sounded firm and resolute.
“Beloved brethren! The chief purpose of our work today is the reception of the seeker, Prince Nadasdy. He is present in the preparation room. He answered the questions propounded, and I ask the brother secretary to read these answers…”
The floor was tiled with slabs of white and black marble, like a chessboard, and in the middle of the nave was a peculiar arrangement of three columns-Ionic, Doric, and Corinthian. A large altar candle had been placed on each of the capitals. Between the columns was a pictorial carpet, embroidered, with an array of mysterious images: pomegranates, a rough stone, the moon and the sun, a square and compasses.
Beyond the pillars, on the other side of the nave, Liebermann examined the congregation of Masons. They were all dressed in tailcoats, top hats, white gloves, and richly embroidered aprons. Some wore sashes, others V- shaped collars like the venerable. Everyone present possessed a sabre. Liebermann had asked Kanner why the brethren took weapons into their temple, and he had discovered that it was a tradition that embodied their egalitarian principles.
Back in the eighteenth century, Max, swords were used to signal nobility. Freemasons wore them to show that they were equals and to proclaim that greatness was a question of deed and character-not of birth.
Liebermann had been given a simple lambskin apron, the bib of which had been raised: a small modification
