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, Lázár,” 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?”
“If he's lying, why did he knock out von Bulow?”
“Maybe he didn't—maybe it's all a ruse and von Bulow is just pretending to be unconscious, waiting for his moment!”
“Lázár, that's absurd.”
“Look, I don't know what's happening here—and neither do you. But we do know that this man”—Liebermann felt the gun's muzzle being lodged under the bony arch at the base of his skull—”knows far more than he should, and if you let him live, it will threaten the success of the operation—everything we've worked for! If you don't want to watch, go and wait for me at the Südbahnhof. I'll deal with them both.”
The ensuing hiatus was filled with the noise of the roaring deluge: the slop and spatter, the splash and spill—unrelenting, indifferent, merciless.
Trezska threw her arms up in the air, as if she were beseeching a higher authority for assistance. When she let them drop, her bag slipped from her shoulder. It landed on the ironwork with a resonant clang. She crouched down to pick it up.
There was a loud report.
The pressure of the gun barrel at the back of Liebermann's neck was suddenly relieved. Then there was a dull thud, followed by the clatter of Lázár Kiss's revolver hitting the ground.
Trezska was clutching a small smoking pistol.
Liebermann remembered that first night, when he had lifted her bag in the alley and found it unusually heavy. Now he knew why.
He wheeled around. Lázár was sprawled out on the cobbles, blood leaking from a neat circular hole in his forehead.
“You've killed him,” whispered Liebermann.
“Yes,” said Trezska. “You were telling the truth.” She smiled at him, and her distinctive features took on a diabolic cast. “I had a… feeling. And, as you know, I trust my feelings.”
“Who is he?” said Liebermann, extending a trembling hand to the stair rail for support.
“Lázár Kiss—a fellow nationalist. But I have long suspected him of being a collaborator—a double agent. Now, you will forgive me, I have a train to catch. I trust you won't experience a sudden surge of patriotism and try to stop me.” Trezska pointed her gun at Liebermann. “I hope you will agree that I have now redeemed my debt— and I have no further obligation to you.”
“Would you really shoot me?” Liebermann glanced at the pistol. It was a beautiful weapon, chased with filigree. The handgrip was inlaid with mother-of-pearl.
“What do you think?”
“I think you would.”
“Then you would think right.”
“Is it in your valise—Studie U?”