Vienna (30 page)

“Can we leave now?”

He ignored her. “Anson Davy is the finest man I know. He's also the toughest son of a bitch I've ever met. He ever tell you how he got that scar on his face?”

“No.”

“Do yourself a favor and never ask. Lord Davy has done difficult work for queen and country, but he would die before putting Miss Vienna in jeopardy.” The finger resumed its metronome tapping. “Of course this is exactly what I would say if I were covering for him. How can I gain the trust of strangers under such circumstances?”

“I can't think of a way. If you have no further questions, we will—”

“We will not.” He turned to address his men. “Miss Vienna, Miss Am, and I will be stepping out to clear the air. We are not to be followed or in any way observed.” The men nodded without comment. Justine had no doubt that all of Olifur's instructions were followed without deviation or hesitation. “In a public place,” she added.

“Ah, so you don't trust me. Yes, in a public place.”

The same cold rain was drifting over Reykjavík. Drops so small they amounted to little more than fog, saturating the air with a penetrating chill. Justine wondered if it were ever dry here.

They wound through twisting blocks to an old wooden building with red awnings.
SHALIMAR: INDIAN AND PAKISTANI CUISINE
. Olifur held the door and gestured them in. The dining room was full, locals in huddled conversation. Olifur led Justine and Vienna up a narrow staircase. The upper level sported several vacant booths. The policeman took one in the far corner.

“Alone, but within shouting distance for help,” Olifur said. He slid into the booth. “Most tourists aren't used to Icelandic spice blends. Sadly, after four years at Quantico I acquired a barbaric taste for heat.”

When the waiter appeared, Olifur ordered in English without opening the menu. “Masala nan for starters, two murgh madras curry, and one prawn tikka.” The waiter nodded as he wrote the order. “The food is excellent and easily shared,” Olifur said as the waiter left. “I stayed away from the more volcanic concoctions. I find most women prefer something less threatening.”

“Especially when you want them to trust you.”

“Especially then.” He had the hard but compassionate persona going full blast. He wore it well. “I have a solution to our problem. Vienna, does your cell phone have a conference mode?”

“I'm not sure.”

“Here, hun, let me check.” Justine held out her hand as Vienna dug her phone out of the small handbag Justine had given her. Justine paged through the menu until she found the speaker. “It's on.”

Olifur nodded to Vienna. “Call Lord Davy.”

Davy picked up on the second ring. “Hello, Vienna,” he said.

“And friends,” Olifur spoke before Vienna could answer. “You're on speaker, Lord Davy. Your audience is Miss Vienna, Justine Am, and myself.”

“Tell me, Dizzy, why do you sound involved on a personal level?”

“I have a soft spot for damsels in distress,” Olifur answered.

“Soft spot? Is that what they're calling it these days? I didn't realize irony was in style. What can I do for you?”

“You can answer Vienna's e-mail. She stated for the record that she asked you where an empress with the improbable name of Sisi was murdered.”

“That wasn't the question,” Lord Davy said.

“What else would it have been?” Justine asked.

“A matter of honor.”

Olifur's voice went hard. “Are you joking? This isn't Camelot. Would you allow Vienna to be harmed for the sake of your honor? I'm asking as a friend. Don't make me ask as a cop.”

“I could guarantee Vienna's safety if she returned to London.”

“She isn't going anywhere without Miss Am.”

“Justine would be welcome as well.”

“They don't trust you, Anson, and from what I'm hearing, I don't blame them.”

“I should have known you would end up siding with the long legs.”

“The e-mail, Lord Davy. This is me asking as a cop.”

“Vienna, or I should say Justine acting through Vienna, asked where the place of righteous murder is. The truth is, I don't know. No one does. But it doesn't refer to the murder of Sisi.”

“Then what?” Olifur asked.

“An old scandal with no connection to Iceland.”

“Please,” Vienna said.

“Bloody hell.”

“Language, Anson. There are ladies present,” Olifur said.

“If they retain that state of grace after being with you, you're losing your touch.” There was a slight pause. “I know you too well to ask the obvious favor.”

Olifur nodded. “I'll do everything in my power to keep this between the four of us. It's important, old friend. I feel quicksand steps.”

The phrase seemed to mean something to Davy. “If I must compromise my honor, you might as well be in on it. Lord knows it would make a pleasant reversal of our usual arrangement.”

“Bravo, as your peers would say.”

Davy ignored that. “Vienna, what do you have on Sisi's son, Prince Rudolph?”

Vienna's gaze went blank. “Archduke Rudolph was born on August 21, 1858. The son of Emperor Franz Josef I and—”

“That's the one,” Davy cut her off. Vienna blushed and looked away. Justine took her hand under the table. “What do you know of his death?” Davy asked.

Vienna swallowed and looked inward again. Her lips moved, but she remained silent. Olifur stared at her in increasing amazement. “He died with his lover, Marie Alexandrine von Vetsera.” Vienna paused and repeated the name in a cheap vampire movie accent. “von Vetsera.” The ghost smile. “Erzsébet Báthory, bathing in blood.” Her hand tightened briefly over Justine's. “Voivode.” She shifted and sighed.

“Cause of death?” Davy asked.

“Rudolph shot Marie and then himself. The murder-suicide was provoked by the emperor's demand that the lovers end their adulterous affair. Their bodies were discovered at a hunting lodge in Mayerling.”

“A convenient lie,” Davy said. “The emperor had long been aware of his son's infidelity. Hell, he was having his own affair at the time.”

“But suicide makes no sense as a lie,” Vienna said. “The emperor had to beg the papacy for his son to receive last rites. Besides, the prince wrote a note for his wife: ‘Dear Stephanie, you are now rid of my presence and annoyance; be happy in your own way. Take care of the poor wee one—'”

“It wasn't a suicide note.”

“Then what was it?” Justine asked.

“A damn soap opera.”

“Turns out I have time for one,” Olifur said. “Keep going.”

“Emperor Joseph and Sisi were terrible parents. Rudolph grew up starved for attention. In the spring of 1884, he fell in love with an anarchist named Lina Zahler. Promises were made, likely buried under layers of flattery. Zahler persuaded him to raid the royal treasury. He pilfered a stone called the Star of Memphis. He thought it would be sold to further the cause of the working man. Revenge against his mother and father.”

Olifur leaned toward the phone. “That's it? That's your shameful secret? My nana has better stories. Let me guess the ending: Zahler blackmailed our hapless prince.”

“She did, but you haven't heard the complicated bit. With cash in hand, Zahler beguiled several impressionable men. Among them a young radical named Luigi Lucheni.”

“The man who killed Sisi!” Vienna said.

“The complicated bit,” Davy said. “Zahler originally told Lucheni to assassinate Philippe, duc d'Orléans. Do you know the name, Vienna?”

“The Pretender of the French Throne?”

“Another in a growing list of ex-lovers and blackmail victims, I assume,” Olifur said.

“Likely.”

Olifur crossed his arms, elbows on the table. “So we have a seductress with sharp fangs and less restraint than a cockroach in a kitchen. Sad but hardly unique. What's the catch?”

“After Prince Rudolph fell in love with Marie von Vetsera, he no longer cared if his theft became known. Zahler's blackmail lost traction and the prince had to be silenced. She caught Marie and Rudolph alone in the Wienerwald. The prince was granted enough time to write his enigmatic note before he and his lover were gunned down.”

“Why was all of this kept secret?” Vienna asked.

Davy was silent.

“I have the feeling this is the good part,” Olifur said.

“Uncle Anson? Are you still there?”

“Politics, Vienna. In stealing the Star of Memphis, Rudolph had unwittingly offered to finance people who planned—for whatever private reasons—to assassinate Philippe. Europe was already on the edge of chaos. If the truth had come out, France would have ripped Austria to pieces. It would have accelerated World War One by two decades.”

Olifur cleared his throat. “Isn't that a little over the top? All of this angst over one man?”

“Stupid,” Vienna said. “After Prince Rudolph's death, his cousin, Archduke Franz Ferdinand became heir presumptive to the throne. Ferdinand was assassinated in 1914. Do you remember what happened next, or do I have to tell you?”

Olifur's eyes opened wider even as gentle laughter came over the phone. “I stand corrected, young lady,” Olifur said.

Davy continued. “The suicide story was the perfect dodge for the very reason Vienna mentioned. Once admitted, few could imagine any truth more painful. It was a clever stroke by Sisi.”

“But not clever enough to save her own life,” Justine said.

“Sisi made an appointment with Zahler, hoping to buy the star back. Zahler sent Luigi Lucheni to take care of it. He caught Sisi at Lake Geneva, with the sad result Vienna alluded to.”

“What became of the Star of Memphis?” Justine asked.

“Unknown. One tale has Lina Zahler passing away of old age in Bratislava, babbling of her one true love and of the star being hidden among the planets. An equally probable story has her clutching the star to her breast and jumping off the Széchenyi Lánchíd into the Danube.”

“And the place of righteous murder?”

“Rudolph's murder occurred a mile into the Wienerwald. Near the Dornbach—a small stream in the forest. No other details remain. There was only Lina's scrap of a confession, couched in anarchist babble: ‘The royal line is ended, here at this place of righteous murder. Let all be made level.' Given the circumstances, it was quashed by the royal family.”

“And if this Star of Memphis were to surface today?” Olifur asked.

“It is one of three inalienable treasures of the House of Habsburg. The Austrian government would pay millions to have it back.”

“Strange how this story comes to light the day after a murder. I'm not a believer in coincidence, although I can't see Haldor having such a thing. What was it, exactly?”

“Nineteenth-century royal catalogues refer to it as bixbite, a form of beryl called scarlet emerald,” Davy said. “The stone was listed as an uncut, roughly hexagonal crystal. It was said to have come from the ancient city of Memphis, a gift of the gods. How it got there is anyone's guess, as bixbite is only found in the southwestern United States. In Sisi's time, the star was considered a piece of heaven fallen to earth. Some hocus-pocus based on Old Testament prophecy.”

Vienna sat up straight. “‘The appearance of the wheels and their work was like unto the color of a beryl,'” Vienna quoted in her reading voice, “‘and they four had one likeness: and their appearance and their work was as it were a wheel in the middle of a wheel.'” She paused and gave her apologetic half smile. “Ezekiel's vision of heaven.”

“That's the one,” Davy said. “Nineteenth-century mystics thought it had something to do with the machinery of God.”

Olifur glanced across the table. “Miss Am, it seems you were familiar with parts of this story when you had Vienna e-mail Lord Davy. Is it possible you might know the location of this star?”

“If I knew, I would tell you to be free of this.”
Assuming I could be certain you weren't part of the gang putting bodies in rivers.

“But you think the star is tied in with—”

“Olifur,” Davy interrupted. “She's cognizant that Vienna might be placed in jeopardy by this thing. I am finally wrapping my brain around the notion that she is hopelessly in love with our girl.”

“How do you know?” Vienna asked. The hurt in her voice was unmistakable.
She wonders how everyone recognizes so easily what she struggles to see.

“I'm a spy, Miss Vienna. It's my business to know.”

“I'm not joking,” Vienna said.

“Neither is he,” Justine answered.

“Stop teasing me!”

“My apologies,” Davy said. “The inference is simple. No sane person would spend fifteen minutes, let alone five hours, in Heathrow. Only extreme agitation could account for Justine Am accomplishing this questionable feat.”

“Agitation?”

“The original synonym of love, Vienna, as I suspect you are discovering.”

“I sense a good story,” Olifur said, “but it will have to wait.” The officer leaned back into the booth. “I think we can agree that Lord Davy has been truthful.”

“I have been.”

“I appreciate your help, sir,” Olifur said. “I will contact you with any developments.”

“Please do.” He paused. “Ladies, good day.” The connection went dead.

How many wheels would Davy set rolling now? Justine handed the phone back to Vienna.

“I hope that clears up any misunderstandings,” Olifur said.

“Not even close. Next time you talk to your pal, ask him why he has David Andries's phone number on his phone, and why he used it to set Vienna up the night we met.”

“I find it impossible to believe you have seen Lord Davy's phone.”

“Vienna told me.”

“I did?” Vienna asked. “But I've never seen David Andries's number.”