At Sword's Point (14 page)

"This is Captain John Drummond calling," he said. "I should like to book a room for tomorrow."

"One moment please." The voice set down the telephone, and Drummond could hear some kind of commotion on the desk, close to the receiver, and then the click of the line going on hold.

"So sorry, Kapitän." The voice returned after a moment. "Are you still there?"

"Yes, I'm still here," Drummond replied, trying to imagine what the owner of the voice looked like.

"How many in your party, please?" the voice asked.

"Just me."

"Ach, excellent. Then for tomorrow I can give you a room for three days. Or do you need to stay longer?" the receptionist asked.

"Three days will be fine." Drummond had planned to stay only the one night, but an extra day or two might give him an opportunity to become better acquainted with the baroness.

"Very good, Kapitän. We shall expect you tomorrow afternoon.
Wiedersehen
."

"
Wiedersehen
," Drummond replied.

Having booked in at the castle, Drummond placed his second call. After the second ring, a gentlemanly voice came on the line.

"Bitte?"

Drummond immediately recognized von Liebenfalz' voice.

"Baron von Liebenfalz, this is John Drummond," he said.

"Captain Drummond, this is a surprise. Don't tell me you have already received my letter there in Los Angeles?" von Liebenfalz said.

"No, I'm afraid I haven't received your letter. I'm here in Vienna. I was calling to ask you to join me for dinner."

"I am sorry, Captain, but I have an engagement this evening, and I will be away this weekend," he said. "Perhaps some other time?"

Drummond could tell by von Liebenfalz' tone of voice that there were no other engagements that evening; only a sense of propriety prevented his accepting the invitation.

"I leave Vienna tomorrow, sir. Perhaps you could join me for a cocktail on your way to your other engagement?"

"Certainly," von Liebenfalz said, the social compromise having been agreed. "Where shall we meet?"

"The Palais Schwarzenberg, if that's not inconvenient," Drummond suggested.

"Splendid," von Liebenfalz replied. "Shall we say, drinks at seven o'clock?"

Drummond said good-bye to von Liebenfalz and had just put the phone down when it immediately began to ring.

"Kapitän Drummond?" It was the desk clerk. There is a gentleman here to see you. His name is Hamilton-Bolt."

"I'll be right down," Drummond said. Replacing the handset on the cradle, he put on his jacket and headed down to the lobby.

"Ha. There you are," Hamilton-Bolt said, before Drummond had even emerged from behind the large potted palms that flanked the staircase leading to his suite.

"Don't tell me that my car is ready now," Drummond said, as he shook the older man's hand.

"Nope. Bit of a problem on that score, I'm afraid." Hamilton-Bolt screwed his face into a mock-serious frown.

"Problem?" Drummond asked.

"Yes. The car phone chappie won't have you hooked up until tomorrow. I'm afraid that we won't be able to deliver your car until sometime around noon." Hamilton-Bolt looked as if his failure to deliver the car ahead of schedule was somehow an ineradicable blot on Britannia's escutcheon. "Damn bad show."

"Well, I shouldn't worry about it too much," Drummond said. "Do you think it will be ready by noon?"

"Oh, absolutely, even if they have to keep working all night," the older man said. "Now, if we could just take care of one or two formalities?" He reached into an inside pocket and produced a sheaf of papers. "Need you to sign some things—lease papers and insurance and tax documents. A lease is all right, I hope? The bank said it would be most cash efficient."

"Yes, that's fine," Drummond said.

He and Hamilton-Bolt sat down at a small table in the corner of the lobby, and while Drummond signed in triplicate, the Englishman ordered tea. A waiter in white gloves and striped vest brought a silver tea service to the table just as Drummond handed the last of the papers back to Hamilton-Bolt.

"So tell me," Drummond said, "how long have you been in Vienna?"

"Ha. That's an easy one," Hamilton-Bolt replied, giving his tea a stir. "Arrived Christmas Day, 1944."

"Oh, were you a prisoner?" Drummond asked.

"Not on your life—at least not until the Russians arrived. No, I was sent in by His Majesty's Government to negotiate a German surrender with Himmler. Of course, the politicians got it all bollocked up." He sipped his tea from the dark blue and gilt cup. They should have been dealing with Göring. He grew up in Austria. Anyway, when the war ended, I stayed. Made myself useful to the Allies and a damned nuisance to the Russians." He glanced at his watch.

"Ha. Time to go." Hamilton-Bolt set down his cup. "Sorry for the delay in getting your car to you," he said as they stood up. "Awfully sorry, but not to worry. I'll have it here by noon tomorrow."

"That will be just fine, sir," Drummond said as they shook hands. "I'll see you tomorrow."

Hamilton-Bolt's exit from the hotel lobby was delayed by the arrival of Drummond's packages from Eduard Kettner's. Carefully avoiding a collision with the elderly British gentleman, Paul maneuvered the last of the packages through the door and placed them with the others already stacked neatly next to the desk. When Hamilton-Bolt had gone, Drummond walked over to where Paul was checking items off his list a final time and counting packages.

"Well," Drummond said, "I sure hope it all fits in the car."

"
Exzellenz
?" Paul asked.

Drummond gave him a half smile in reply. "Where are the knives?" he asked.

"Here," Paul said, producing two gift-wrapped packages from somewhere near the top of the pile.

Drummond took the two packages and weighed them in his hands for a few seconds, then handed the smaller one back to Paul.

Thank you for all of your help at the store," he said. "I hope you will find this a useful gift when you are out hunting."

Paul stared at Drummond in wide-eyed disbelief for several seconds before he found his voice.

"For me,
Exzellenz
?" he asked.

"Yes," Drummond said. "For you.
Danke schön
."

Turning, he walked across the lobby and into the bar of the hotel. He peered out one of the front windows a few minutes later just in time to see Paul walking out to the Kettner's van, shaking his head and still staring at the package in his hands in disbelief.

Smiling, Drummond headed back up to his room to shower and change before drinks with von Liebenfalz.

He was back in the bar just before seven, sitting where he could see the driveway out to the main street. Just on seven, von Liebenfalz' blue-and-black Bentley pulled up the drive and glided majestically to a halt in front of the main entrance. The door swung open on large chromed hinges, providing just a glimpse of the gray leather interior and polished walnut dash as a well-dressed gentleman in a dark blue suit, homburg, and matching gloves and spats stepped out of the car.

Drummond tried to guess von Liebenfalz' age as he watched him return the doorman's deep bow with an almost imperceptible nod of his head. Seventy-plus seemed to be a reasonable guess. The car had to be somewhere between fifty and sixty years old, and von Liebenfalz had the look of someone who had probably bought it new.

As the baron entered the lobby, one of the bellmen met him at the door and escorted him back to where Drummond was seated in the bar. At the approach of von Liebenfalz, Drummond stood.

"Baron," he said, nodding toward the older gentlemen. "How kind of you to join me for a drink."

"My pleasure, Kapitän Drummond," von Liebenfalz said, pulling off his gray gloves and handing them to the bellman along with his hat and gold-headed walking stick. Settling into a gilded chair, von Liebenfalz carefully adjusted the crease in his trousers before casually crossing his legs. "So, what delightful pleasure brings you back to Vienna?"

The question took Drummond slightly off-guard.

"Sightseeing," he said, hoping that the answer didn't sound too lame.

"Ah,
gut
. And what did you see today?" von Liebenfalz asked. "The Schönbrunn, perhaps?"

"No." Drummond smiled. "Nothing so intellectual. I was out at the Volksprater."

The waiter's arrival allowed Drummond to gracefully change the subject. "What would you like to drink?" he asked.

"Kir, please," von Liebenfalz said.

"And a whisky with water," Drummond added.

Bowing, the waiter retired to the far end of the room, returning only a few minutes later with their drinks on a small silver tray. Von Liebenfalz raised his glass to Drummond.

"Am blanken Schwert, Am Falkenflug, Am stolzen Pferd, Am schoenen Weib. Prost!"

"
Prost
," Drummond replied, raising his glass in return as he joined von Liebenfalz in his toast. "I'm afraid that since I don't speak German, I'll have to ask you to translate what you've just said," he said as he set down his drink.

"It is the traditional toast of the questing knight," von Liebenfalz said. "A drawn sword, a falcon's flight, a stalwart horse, a lovely wife." He gave Drummond a conspiratorial smile. "Any man who finds no pleasure in these things does not have the spirit of chivalry."

"Speaking of which, you said you had sent me a letter?" Drummond asked.

"Ah, yes. My letter." Von Liebenfalz took a sip of his kir. "I made some discreet inquiries about the Order of the Sword after our last meeting, and through a contact of mine in Switzerland I was able to acquire the insignia of the order from an antique dealer in Paris. Given your— shall we say—'interest' in the order, I thought you might be interested in owning the insignia yourself."

"Do you mind if I ask how your contact obtained the insignia?" Drummond found himself using the same casual tone he might have employed in speaking to someone fencing stolen watches, just before making the arrest.

"Well," von Liebenfalz replied, "that is the same question I asked. After all, the Order of the Sword is shrouded in mystery. The Vatican still recognizes it as an extant order, even though it seems to have vanished nearly seven hundred years ago. As a matter of fact, they still appoint a Cardinal Protector of the Order who is resident in Jerusalem, and who maintains a choir to pray for the order three times a day.

"Even so—" Von Liebenfalz interrupted himself to sip his kir. "If you request any information on the order from the usual channels, your letter is returned, unopened."

"So where did the insignia come from?" Drummond asked.

"Well, one day a very well-bred gentleman entered my friend's shop and sold him the insignia." Von Liebenfalz signaled to the waiter for another drink. "My friend contacted the maker of the insignia in Paris, and they checked their records. The insignia had been manufactured in 1886 for Cardinal Bernardo Bonaparte, a distant cousin of Napoleon III. Cardinal Bonaparte was a nephew of Cardinal Fesch, a half uncle of Napoleon I. Interestingly, both Cardinal Fesch and Cardinal Bonaparte were Protectors of the Order of the Sword."

The waiter arrived with another round of drinks, and von Liebenfalz waited until he had left before continuing his story.

"As far as who the man was who sold the insignia to my friend—well, I really don't know. The transaction was conducted in cash, and all my friend could tell me was that he thought the man might have been Romanian, by his accent. Who he was, or where he came from, no one knows."

"I see," Drummond said. "I don't suppose you would have brought the insignia with you this evening?"

"No, I didn't think to bring it," von Liebenfalz said. "Perhaps I could send it to you on Monday?"

"I'm afraid that won't be possible. I'm leaving tomorrow, and I may not be back for quite some time."

"Might I ask where you are going? Perhaps I could send the insignia to your hotel," von Liebenfalz said.

"I'll be at Schloss Dielstein for a few days, then I'll be touring Germany. I'm afraid I haven't any solid plans," Drummond replied.

"Ah, Schloss Dielstein." A hint of nostalgia crept into von Liebenfalz' voice. "I knew it well, before the war. The old baron was one of the last truly great aristocrats. Please convey my warmest good wishes to his granddaughter."

"I certainly shall, sir," Drummond said.

Von Liebenfalz set down his glass and pulled a gold pocket watch from the breast pocket of his suit. When he pressed the stem with his thumb, the case popped open. Von Liebenfalz gave the watch a studied glance, then snapped the case shut.

"I must be going, Kapitän Drummond," he said, standing up. Thank you for the drink."

"You are more than welcome, sir," Drummond said. "Perhaps next time you'll join me for dinner."

"Perhaps," von Liebenfalz said. "I'm sure we shall meet again."

The bellman appeared at von Liebenfalz' elbow and handed him his hat, gloves, and walking stick.

"And please," the baron said to Drummond, as he pulled on the gray kid gloves, "do remember to give my regards to Baroness von Diels."

Drummond watched as von Liebenfalz crossed the lobby and vanished, almost wraithlike, through the doors of the hotel.

A drawn sword, a falcon's flight, a steadfast horse, a beautiful wife
, he mused. Yes, he'd give von Liebenfalz' kindest regards to the baroness.

Drummond stood looking at the bullet holes in the body of the ancient motorcar: neat, slightly oblong holes where the .32 caliber slugs had struck the side of the car and, passing through the thin metal skin of the vehicle, had deformed before tearing through the upholstery in an explosion of leather and horsehair.

The royal occupants in the back seat had been killed, though not instantly. The Archduke Franz Ferdinand and his wife, the Archduchess Sophia, had been carried into the post office, where local doctors tried frantically to stop Sophia's bleeding. Franz Ferdinand, heir-apparent to the Austro-Hungarian Empire, had refused all medical attention as he sat in a rickety wooden chair in the far corner of the room, in shock and concerned for the quickly ebbing life of his wife. No one, probably not even the archduke, realized that he had been badly wounded in the chest.

At the first sound of gunfire, he had thrown himself across his wife's body to shield her. One of the last shots fired by Gavarillo Princips had struck the archduke in the chest, entering his body behind the row of medals pinned to the front of his uniform. The medals had covered the bullet hole—and with the archduke insisting that he was uninjured, it was assumed that the blood on his snow white tunic was that of his wife.

After trying for twenty minutes to save the life of the archduchess, the doctors had turned to the ashen-faced man in the stained white uniform to tell him that his wife had died. As the doctors approached Franz Ferdinand, he had slid to the floor, dead.

That had been nearly a century before. Drummond found it amazing, in an eerie, surreal sort of way, to be standing in a room where time stood frozen. Next to the bloodstained motorcar that had carried the pair was a glass sarcophagus, and laid out in it was the uniform Franz Ferdinand had worn on the day he was murdered. In this one small room in Austria's Military History Museum, tucked away in a complex called the Arsenal, was preserved the exact moment when a thousand-year dynasty had ended, plunging the world into the most horrible war it was ever to know.

Vienna itself, Drummond mused, was also in a partial state of suspended animation. Von Liebenfalz' apartment, Eberle's home, the hotel where he was staying—all were very much part of a past that had ended on a hot, dusty day in Sarajevo in 1914. Very little had moved. He glanced at his watch and was almost startled to see the sweep second hand moving across its black face, the luminous hands signaling the approach of noon.

Walking quietly away from the wounded motorcar and embalmed uniform, he headed out of the museum and caught a taxi back to his hotel. As it pulled into the forecourt of the Palais Schwarzenberg, he was surprised to see several hotel employees crowded around his Range Rover. It soon became apparent, from the commotion, that a great deal of effort was going into packing Drummond's luggage and all of his outdoor gear into the back of the car, with bags and boxes being inserted and removed like pieces of a giant jigsaw puzzle. Inside, Herr Hubmann greeted him with a polite bow as he approached the desk.

"Kapitän Drummond," Hubmann said. "How was your visit to the army museum?"

"Interesting, very interesting," Drummond replied. "I see my car is here. I hope you haven't had any difficulty in loading it."

"None at all, Kapitän," Hubmann replied. "The car was delivered about fifteen minutes ago." He handed Drummond a thick manila envelope. These are the insurance and registration documents and," he handed him a leather key case, "these are your extra keys."

"Thank you," Drummond said. "It's been a pleasure staying here again. Is my bill tallied up?"

"It is, Kapitän," Hubmann said, handing him another envelope. "I trust you will find everything in order."

"I'm sure I will," Drummond said, slipping the envelope and the car documents into the inside pocket of his navy blazer. "
Auf wiedersehen, Herr Hubmann
."

"Kapitän." Hubmann bowed and clicked his heels.

"Oh, Kapitän Drummond," Hubmann said, as Drummond turned to leave. "There was a young man here earlier this morning. He left this for you." He handed Drummond a small envelope with "S.E. Herr Drummond" printed neatly across its front.

"S.E.?" Drummond asked, glancing at Hubmann.

"
Sein Exzellenz
," Hubmann supplied.

"Ah. Thank you." Turning aside, Drummond opened the envelope and took out the folded note inside.

Exzellenz,

I am most sincerely flattered by the generosity of your most excellent gift. There is an old tradition in my country, and perhaps in yours as well, that when a huntsman is given a knife he must in some way pay for it, lest it cut the bonds of brotherhood that unite all hunters. I hope then that you will accept this payment as a token of my respect and continuing friendship, should you ever return to my country.

Yours truly,

Paul Gemmer

Taped to the bottom of the page was a small Austrian coin.

Smiling, Drummond carefully folded the note and put it in an outside pocket of his blazer as he walked out of the hotel and climbed into his Range Rover. His bags were on the seats behind him, his other purchases stowed behind the back seats. Hamilton-Bolt had thoughtfully left the owners manual on the passenger seat, and Drummond spent several minutes familiarizing himself with the car before starting up and easing out into the Vienna traffic.

At a service plaza just before the entrance to the autobahn, he bought a large European road atlas and half a dozen classical music tapes, one of which he immediately popped into the Range Rover's tape deck. After a brief consultation with the map, he headed west toward Schloss Dielstein, with Hayden's Trumpet Concerto in E flat providing the background music to the changing panorama of the Austrian countryside.

The Range Rover owner's manual had advised against sustained high-speed cruising for the first five hundred miles, so Drummond used the admonition as an excuse to leave the autobahn and meander along the narrow roads that ran through the small villages to the west of Vienna. As he drove along, Drummond found himself thinking of the Baroness von Diels, idly speculating whether or not Franz Reidl would be at dinner that evening. It had been more than five years since Drummond's wife had been injured, and during that time he had only casually dated other women.

He supposed that it was the remoteness of the baroness that made him wonder what sort of woman she really was. One thing was for certain, he decided. It was unlikely that she would have any interest in him. It was his experience that beautiful women had no shortage of admirers, and the baroness was beautiful. No, some lucky local, like Reidl, would have the inside track on the attentions of the baroness.

It was late in the afternoon when Drummond finally turned off the road from Reid and headed down the dusty, tree-lined avenue of Schloss Dielstein. Unlike the occasion of his previous visit, there were a number of cars parked in front of the castle, including a scarlet Bugatti convertible casually drawn up next to the Teutonic bulk of an older Mercedes-Benz.

Having found a shady spot to park, Drummond got out and headed toward the main entrance to the castle. As he reached the door, he was greeted by Joachim the butler, who bowed formally as he came through the door.

"
Guten Abend, Kapitän Drummond
," he said. "May I bring in your luggage?"

"Just the bags on the back seat, thank you," Drummond replied.

"Certainly, sir. If you will follow me, the baroness is waiting on the terrace with some of her guests."

Joachim turned and led Drummond across the great hall and into a small sitting room that opened onto the marbled terrace, where an assortment of mostly elderly men and women were having drinks. Stopping at the open French doors, the butler signaled discreetly for Drummond to wait until he was announced.

"
Sein Exzellenz, Kapitän Drummond
." Stepping to the side, Joachim bowed as Drummond moved past him and out onto the terrace.

The baroness was chatting with a handful of proper-looking dowagers, but immediately excused herself and crossed over to where Drummond was standing.

"Captain Drummond," she said, extending her hand. "I am delighted to see you."

Drummond took the outstretched hand and kissed it. "It's a pleasure to be here once again, Baroness," he said, savoring for just a moment the subtle aroma of her perfume. "I hope my visit won't interfere with your party."

"Not at all," she said. Then in a somewhat lowered voice, she added, "It will be pleasant to have someone to talk to who is younger than my butler."

She took Drummond by the arm and introduced him to several of the people on the terrace, but always steered him away from them before he could be trapped in a conversation. A servant carrying a tray of drinks came up to them and, with a slight bow, presented the tray.

"Can I offer you a drink?" the baroness asked.

"Certainly," Drummond replied. "Some white wine, please."

"Ah, that is typically Californian, Captain," she said as she handed him the delicately stemmed glass. "I hope our local wines won't disappoint you."

Drummond sipped the wine. Its sparkling effervescence was like biting into a crisp, cold apple.

"There is nothing in California to compare with the charms of Austria, Baroness," he said, lifting the glass in salute.

"Please," she said, blushing slightly at Drummond's compliment. "Call me Maria."

"Only if you agree to call me John," Drummond replied good-naturedly.

Maria's smile betrayed a hint of smug satisfaction as she flicked her gaze out over the terrace and her other guests. "I was afraid you would never ask."

Drummond was about to comment when they were interrupted by Joachim's announcement of another arrival.

"
Sein Exzellenz, der Freiherr von Liebenfalz
," he said, bowing as von Liebenfalz stepped onto the terrace, impeccably dressed in a light blue suit with snow-white spats and matching Borsalino hat.

Maria let out a little sigh. "Dear old Anton so loves to make an entrance. Please excuse me, John."

She made her way through the other guests and let von Liebenfalz kiss her hand before taking his arm to steer him deftly back to where Drummond stood quietly sipping his wine.

"Baron von Liebenfalz," Maria began, "allow me to present—"

"Chevalier Drummond," von Liebenfalz interrupted smoothly. "What an unexpected pleasure to see you here this afternoon."

"The afternoon is full of pleasant surprises, sir," Drummond said, nodding slightly toward Maria. "I had no idea, when we had drinks last night, that we'd be seeing each other again so soon."

"The world is full of such happy surprises," von Liebenfalz said.

"Yes, it certainly is," Maria said. "Now, if you and 'Chevalier' Drummond," she arched an eyebrow at the use of Drummond's title, "will excuse me, I have to see to the Gräfin von Forschtenstein." Turning abruptly, she left the two men and walked across the terrace to a grouping of elderly dowagers.

"So, did you drive up from Vienna?" von Liebenfalz asked.

"Yes, I did," Drummond replied, still gazing after Maria.

"You have hired a car, then?"

"No. Actually I bought a car a few days ago, and it was only delivered to my hotel this morning." Drummond returned his attention to the baron. "Why do you ask?"

"Oh, I am car mad, that's why." The baron smiled. "What sort of car did you buy?"

"A Range Rover."

"The black one out front?"

"That's it, unless there's more than one out front," Drummond replied, wondering at the interest.

Von Liebenfalz set down his glass. "No, I saw only one. You know, I have always admired Range Rovers, but I have never taken the opportunity to examine one at close range. Would you be so kind as to show me yours? If it isn't too much trouble."

Drummond could see that the baroness wasn't in a hurry to return, so he agreed. At least he knew von Liebenfalz; he didn't know any of the rest of these people.

"Sure," he said, setting his glass next to von Liebenfalz'. "Let's go take a look."

Out in front of the castle, von Liebenfalz carefully inspected Drummond's Rover the way a veterinarian pokes and prods a horse for soundness. Finally, wrinkling his nose, the old man sniffed loudly and pronounced the vehicle fit.

"I suppose I'm too old to appreciate it," the baron said, "but I just can't imagine giving up one of my old cars for something so—so modern and, if I may say it, so soulless."

"There is a lot to be said for the modern car," Drummond replied.

"Have you ever driven a thoroughbred motorcar, Chevalier?"

"No, I don't suppose I have," Drummond replied. "And if you don't mind my asking, what's with this 'Chevalier' stuff?"

"You are too modest, Captain Drummond. Let me take you for a ride in the Bugatti and I shall explain." Von Liebenfalz walked over to the open car and opened the passenger door. "Hop in. We'll go for a little drive."

Drummond climbed in on the left side as the baron came around to the other and got in.

"This is a Type 57C, Captain Drummond," von Liebenfalz said, as the supercharged eight-cylinder engine rumbled to life. "Most people consider it Bugatti's finest road car. I have to say that they are right, although I find it a trifle less substantial than my Bentley." He grasped the long gear lever gracefully arching up from the center of the floor and slotted it into reverse. "I'd say that it lacks the stamina of the British car, although it makes up for it with a sort of nervous energy of its own."

He engaged first gear, and the car accelerated up the drive at a speed that Drummond wouldn't have expected from a car over fifty years old. Turning at the gates, von Liebenfalz soon had the Bugatti cruising at 130 kph on the narrow road that leads towards Salzburg, the wind whipping in their hair.

"Remarkable, isn't it?" von Liebenfalz shouted above the whine of the supercharger, as he put his foot down and the car shot up to 160 kph. "That's one hundred miles per hour. Not bad for a machine that's over half a century old."