Fatal Lies Frank Tallis (best fiction books to read txt) 📖

a teacher and sought a more direct relationship with the world. Although he had been denied glory, he could still influence those destined to take his place.

While still in his thirties, he had written an impressive article on the importance of military schools. It had become commonplace in coffeehouses to hear patrons bemoaning the state of the army. Who could deny that it was underfunded, ill-equipped, and in need of modernization? Eichmann, however, had argued that the significance of these factors had been exaggerated. What really mattered was “character.” If the army—and in particular the Austrian army—was going to meet the challenges of the new century, then it should be supplied with soldiers of a certain “type.” Thus, military schools had a key role to play in determining the destiny of the dual monarchy. Moreover, Eichmann had proposed that this right sort of character should be modeled on a vision of man described in recent philosophi cal writings. Such works might introduce teachers to some very useful principles.

It was an argument that had attracted the interest of the headmaster of a military school situated in the Vienna woods. The school was called Saint Florian's. Eichmann was immediately offered a teaching post. Five years later he became deputy headmaster, and three years after that, the headmaster had died and Eichmann had stepped into his shoes.

On the whole, Eichmann s project had been successful. The school now had a fine reputation. In addition, old boys occupied significant positions in the military hierarchy. The survival of the empire was— to a greater or lesser extent—dependent on these men of character whose thinking he had shaped. Thus, in a sense, he had inveigled his way back onto the battlefield. Some of their glory—at least in part— belonged to him.

There was a knock at the door.

Eichmann turned the photograph of his younger self aside.

“Come in.” It was the deputy headmaster. “Ah… Becker,” said the headmaster, gesturing toward a chair. “Well?”

Becker advanced, but did not sit.

“He didn't attend any classes yesterday—and he hasn't been seen all day today. The prefects have undertaken a thorough search of the school, including the outbuildings.”

“Have you spoken to any of his friends?”

“Perger doesn't have friends—as such.”

“All right, then—classmates?”

“A boy called Schoeps claims to have seen him in the dormitory on Tuesday night. That, I believe, was the last time anyone saw him.”

“He must have absconded.”

“Yes, sir, that seems to be the most likely explanation.”

The headmaster shook his head. “This is all we need.”

“Quite. Most inopportune.”

“Thank you, Deputy Headmaster,” said Eichmann.

Becker bowed and left the room.

The headmaster opened a drawer, took out a sheet of headed notepaper, and began writing.

Dear Herr Perger,

I regret to inform you that your son Isidor appears to have absconded from the school. This is a very serious matter.

The headmaster paused and bit the end of his pen. He recalled his talk with Wolf. For a moment, it crossed his mind that the boy might have misundertsood him.

No, he thought. Surely not.

Returning his attention to the letter, he continued to write.

49

LIEBERMANN EXAMINED THE CRACKED SURFACE of a large oil painting that depicted the 1683 battle of Vienna. The colors had been dimmed by generations of cigar smoke, but it was still possible to make out the noble figure of the Polish king, Jan Sobieski, confronting the Ottoman commander—Grand Vizier Merzifonlu Kara Mustafa Pasha.

What if Vienna had fallen? thought Liebermann. What then? Would the cry of the muezzin now be heard, resonating along the banks of the Danube, the Rhine, or even the Seine, calling the faithful to evening prayer?

He felt a small detonation of pride in his chest.

Vienna.

The peoples of Europe were much indebted to the Viennese—if they but knew it!

Liebermann stepped away from the painting, with its massive carved frame and its jaundiced, barely discernible figures, and surveyed the large gloomy room in which he was standing.

Thick embroidered curtains were drawn across three of the tall rectangular windows. Only the fourth pair of heavy drapes had been pulled back to admit a sour, enervating light. From the high ceiling hung a massive iron chandelier—notable for the complexity of its loops and involutions. Stalactites of congealed wax hung from its six dishes like a macabre merry-go-round of dangling atrophied fingers. The ceiling itself was equally ornate, indented with step-sided coffers. Below the ceiling was a cornice of regularly spaced moldings: rosettes, garlands, and openmouthed lions baring their teeth.

Two suits of armor stood guard on either side of the double doors. Other furniture included assorted chairs, a Japanese lacquered cabinet (shaped like a pagoda), a wall table (on which an antique chess set was displayed), a porcelain stove, some bookshelves, and—rather strangely—a battered leather saddle. Liebermann supposed that this last item must have been of sentimental value to the general, having been of service during some notable campaign. Military men—whose fundamental purpose it was to kill others—could be remarkably sentimental.

The center of the room was dominated by a mahogany desk: behind it was a high-backed wooden chair, and on this chair sat a stout gentleman with a bulbous pockmarked nose. His hair had receded, and, like many men of his generation, he had—in deference to the emperor—chosen to sport a fine set of muttonchop whiskers. He was wearing a quilted smoking jacket, with velvet trimmings, and loose-fitting silk trousers. Liebermann noticed that below the desk the general's big feet occupied a pair of elegant oriental slippers traced with silver thread and with toes that curled upward.

Liebermann could hear Rheinhardt's baritone through the closed double doors. He was interviewing one of the general's servants in the hallway. Although the inspector was speaking in hushed tones, his strong voice carried. It was answered by a muffled and considerably weaker tenor.

The general might have been taking a nap—such was his innocent attitude. His left cheek was pressed against the red leather inlay of the desktop, his arms were sprawled out to either side of his head, and his eyes were closed. However,