Authors: Beth Bernobich
Now the clues shifted into focus. “You believe he murdered your husband.”
“I do, but I have no proof.”
Just as he had no proof of the traitor in Éire. He wanted to ask her more questions about that night—about the man who died, about the knife he’d found to defend himself and whether she had provided it—but those would have to wait for later. If, he added, they
had
a later. “Tell me how your husband came to use these drop points, and not Stefan Kos.”
He looked for any sign of self-consciousness in her manner, but there was none. She spoke simply, as though the answer were obvious. “It was when Stefan first arrived in Éire. All the foreign students are interviewed. Stefan met with a man—”
“His name?”
“Seán MacCailín.”
Ó Deághaidh leaned back and felt the rising tension seep away. He did not recognize the name. Most likely, Kos had met with a minor official, not someone in Ó Cadhla’s or De Paor’s immediate circle. Or rather, Lord Ultach’s, he thought, remembering that Lord De Paor had not taken over from the old lord until last year.
Valerija was watching him in return. “Do you know him?”
“Unfortunately, no. What came next for your cousin?”
“They talked a while. About Stefan’s intended research, mostly, but also about Montenegro. It seems the man had visited here once. He was sympathetic about our troubles. The day before Stefan left to return home, the man visited him again, and gave him an address so they could continue their conversation, as he called it.”
“Didn’t your cousin wonder at that?”
She shook her head. “He was in some ways a trusting boy. But when he joined our group, he told us about this Seán MacCailín. Kiro decided to write to MacCailín himself, asking if the man knew anyone in Éire’s government with influence, someone who might convince the queen to involve herself with our affairs.” She smiled pensively. “I disagreed with Kiro’s decision. I said the Éireann queen was no different from the Austrian king.”
Ó Deághaidh would have liked to debate that point with her, but like so much else, that too would have to wait. “Did your husband tell this MacCailín about your group?”
“Yes. More than I liked, less than he wanted to. He even told this man about our impatient members. Oh, he disguised our names, and he spoke in generalities, but the matter was clear enough. I think that is why the man sent instructions, in case, he said, it became necessary to send agents to speak directly with Kiro.”
So whoever he was, this mysterious Seán MacCailín knew enough about the Montenegrin situation at large, and the political conflicts in detail, to create a trap for Éire. His target could not be Ó Deághaidh himself, because the plans started long before his summons to Cill Cannig. Did MacCailín aim to discredit one of the ministers? All of them? The queen herself? And how exactly?
“Are you certain he did not send a warning about me?”
“No, I would have—” She stopped and touched her fingers to her lips. “Perhaps not. They came to a post office number. Kiro told him once how the correspondence worked. It’s possible Ilja claimed the letter himself.”
The pieces still did not fit together and he worried at them as he worried the bread into crumbs and then molded it back together into small neat bullets. Secret reports about Anglians in Montenegro. Rumors of civil war coming to Éire’s shores. But vague and contradictory. The queen could not ignore the matter, but she could not act on mere suspicions.
And so she sends me to Montenegro. The traitor warns these revolutionaries. A scandal, surely, but not so great that it would cause the downfall of a regime. For that, it would take something far greater.…
“When does the Austrian delegation arrive?” he asked.
Valerija started at his question. “They meet with our prince on June first. Five days from now. A week of negotiations over troops and—”
“No. I mean when do they arrive?” He leaned forward, both hands flat on the table. “Two days from now? Three?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Let us suppose a few things,” Ó Deághaidh said, ignoring her question. “Let us suppose the Austrians have no interest in the prince, only in those sympathizers and supporters in your parliament. Let us suppose, too, there are advisers to the prince who also support a connection with Austria. Let us further suppose—”
“That there will be a private meeting between those sympathizers and the Austrians days before the public one,” Valerija said. “Yes. Now I understand.” Her glance met his, wide and bright. “I heard talk that the Austrian prince expressed a liking for our old city and its monasteries and chapels. He wished a private tour before the grand public events.”
“When?” Ó Deághaidh said urgently. “When does the prince come to Cetinje?”
“Tomorrow. No, it’s past midnight. Today.”
* * *
They woke the serving girl at her station by the door. Valerija thrust a handful of bills into the girl’s hands, then they were out the door and running through the streets. Radakovic, Valerija told Ó Deághaidh breathlessly, had money from his uncle. He owned a boardinghouse in a well-to-do district, not far from the many embassies and consulates, and within a half mile from the palace.
“We tell the police first,” she said. “It’s best if they make the report to the royal guards—”
“No.”
Valerija stopped in midstride. There was just enough light from a streetlamp to see that her cheeks were flushed with strong emotion. “What do you mean, no?” Her expression changed then. “I understand. You do not wish our government to discover the connection with yours.”
“Not only that. Think what happens if we go to the police. It might take hours to convince them. And hours more before they can roust the guards and start a search. Meanwhile, Radakovic sets off to start a war.”
“What makes you believe we can stop him alone?”
“I don’t know. Listen to me, Valerija. Madame Delchev. Go to the police if you must, but tell me where Ilja Radakovic lives. Let me carry on with my orders.”
She must have heard the desperation in his voice, because Valerija turned her head away. Her lips moved, as though she might be cursing him, or calculating the future in all its permutations.
“What will you do?” she said at last.
“Take him by surprise. He cannot expect me. Or, if he has gone into hiding, search his rooms for clues to his plans.”
Another searching glance. An expression he could not read. Then she nodded. “Very well. We go together. This way.”
It took them an hour to cross the city, keeping to side streets and the smaller lanes. Once or twice, they crossed the path of another person. A prostitute, trudging homeward. A drunken man singing with surprising vigor and beauty. Otherwise, it was as though the city were swept clean of humanity. Eventually they entered a prosperous neighborhood, with cafés and restaurants and hotels. Radakovic’s boardinghouse stood on a corner, exposed. Its windows were dark; all was quiet.
Ó Deághaidh scanned all directions. No sign of any watchers posted. Very odd. He would have expected the man to take precautions in case Valerija had notified the police. The absence made his skin go cold in premonition, in spite of the warm night.
“Which floor does he live on?” he asked.
“The ground floor.”
They circled around the boardinghouse to the small courtyard between two alleyways. The rear door had been chained shut, but a basement hatchway yielded to their efforts. Once they gained the ground floor, Ó Deághaidh used his lockpick on the door to Radakovic’s rooms.
He pushed the door open. Within, thick curtains shut out any light from the streetlamps. Valerija handed Ó Deághaidh the gun. He entered first, his weapon ready, and checked each room, while she kept watch by the door.
Empty. He signaled to Valerija. She came inside at once and bolted the door.
“He is gone?” she asked.
“So it appears. We’ll make a search.”
Ó Deághaidh lit a pair of candles and they went through all the rooms. Nothing appeared obviously missing from the man’s bedroom, and the bed had not been slept in. In the study, Ó Deághaidh went methodically through each pigeonhole and drawer and folder in Radakovic’s desk and cabinet. There were the accounts for the boardinghouse. Business letters. Correspondence with other political groups throughout the country—filled with inflammatory prose, to be sure, but nothing he would call treasonous. Notes to himself for future speeches. A few envelopes with local addresses, stuffed with bills or receipts. All so ordinary.
“What kind of papers are you looking for?” Valerija asked.
“Letters. Coded messages. Something left over from his correspondence with Seán MacCailín. The man left in a hurry, I would guess. Unless he destroyed the letters at once … Ah.”
He took up a letter opener. Carefully inserted it into the first of those six ordinary envelopes. They were all made of the same thick, opaque paper, he noted. The addresses were from different towns and villages within Montenegro, but the postal marks were the same. Now that he knew what to look for, he saw the envelope had been cut open before and resealed with dabs of glue. He pointed this out to Valerija.
“That was not how he wrote to Kiro,” she whispered.
“Perhaps he had several means of writing. Or perhaps he changed his methods.”
A few slices and the envelope fell open to reveal a letter written in
Š
tokavian. Ó Deághaidh scanned its contents. There was mention of the queen, a few names within Ó Breislin’s department, something about requested funds—Ó Deághaidh recognized the form and style of a refusal couched in bureaucratic terms—and a reference to a mutual cause. But it was the handwriting that arrested Aidrean Ó Deághaidh’s attention. Those strong vertical lines. The small tight loops. The way the writer had crossed the
T
s with a broad stroke the cut across the other letters. He had seen that same script in Cill Cannig.
Lord Alastar De Paor.
De Paor had thoroughly disguised his handwriting on the papers he inserted in Ó Deághaidh’s packet of reports, but writing to Kiro Delchev, he had not bothered. Arrogance or carelessness, it didn’t matter. Here was proof of the man’s treason. No need to examine the rest. He would do that later, after they apprehended Radakovic. He ought to feel more triumph at the discovery, but he was left only with a mounting sense of dread.
Valerija watched, tense and expectant. “Those are MacCailín’s letters,” she said, when he stuffed them into his coat. It was not a question.
“Yes. But his name is not Seán MacCailín. Come, we are not yet done with our search.”
One last room remained. This one turned out to be entirely given over to a long workbench overflowing with heaps of papers, metalworking tools, coils of wire, and several strange metallic boxes, which resembled those Ó Deághaidh had seen in Kos’s room.
“These are Stefan’s papers,” Valerija said, leafing through the papers. “His workbooks and his research notes.”
She handed one notebook to Ó Deághaidh. It was filled with sketches and diagrams, annotated in a combination of Latin and
Š
tokavian. From what he could decipher, Kos’s aim was to create a device capable of altering time’s passage and to measure those disturbances, but in small increments, just enough to prove his theories.
In the margins, he found a series of equations in a different handwriting. Something about increasing the voltage, testing higher frequencies, followed by a series of numbers that produced an eerie sense of recognition. Where had he seen numbers like that before?
… a woman dressed in a hospital gown, her pale hair drifting over her face. She appeared oblivious to her surroundings, weaving her hands in patterns, her lips moving in a silent recitation. No, not entirely silent. As he drew closer, he heard her whisper, “141955329, times two, exponent 25267, add one…”
Prime numbers,
he thought. In another lifetime, Gwen Madóc had gone mad from numbers, or so the doctors at Aonach Sanitarium told Ó Deághaidh. And in that other lifetime, Síomón Madóc had explained his theory of numbers—how they had properties beyond those used to measure and quantify.
That past no longer existed. Gwen and Síomón Madóc had founded their research institute. Kos must have read their papers and used their theories to refine his device. In his innocence, he might have shared this information with Radakovic, who saw a quite different application for the same theorems.
Ó Deághaidh sank to the floor, overcome. Now he understood why the streets around Radakovic’s house were empty, why no lookouts had been posted. Radakovic had sent them all away. Ó Deághaidh knew why, too. If these calculations proved accurate, Ilja Radakovic would do far more than stir a thick soup. He would rip time to pieces. Had the man understood what that meant? Or had he cared only for his politics, no matter what the cost?
Valerija knelt beside him. “What is wrong?”
“No time,” he said. “All the time. I’m sorry. I’m not making any sense.”
“You are starved,” she said. “You ate nothing before but a few scraps of bread.”
She left his side for a few moments, returning with a paring knife and an apple, which she cut into small pieces and fed him by hand. After, she fetched water, cheese, and bread. “Eat,” she insisted, when he tried to refuse. “Now, tell me what you discovered that overset you so.”
In between bites and sips, he told her his suspicions. Telling it a second time did not vanquish the horror, and more than once he had to pause and collect himself. Throughout, Valerija listened, her gaze intent. When he finished, her mouth opened, closed. Then, hardly more than a whisper, “Destruction. If not that, war, which is the same thing. Us with Austria. The Prussian Alliance would join in—they always do. Then their allies and enemies. Do we go to the police now, Aidrean Ó Deághaidh?”
He shook his head.
“Stubborn man,” she muttered.
He could not help smiling. “So are you. Stubborn, I mean.”
She gave a smothered laugh, which broke into a sob. “If only we had our own device to turn back the time.” She laid a hand upon his cheek, which nearly undid all his resolve. Ó Deághaidh felt a tremor go through his body. Valerija must have sensed it, because she drew back a step. “Come,” she said softly. “We must hurry.”