She had remained late in the set of rooms that served her as an office, late enough for the gas lamps along the street outside to be lit against the darkness and for true night to fall, late enough for the street to lie silent and deserted beneath the trembling lamplight. No female physician could be said to practice medicine in the Berlin of 1878, but her effrontery – and her success – had stunned the traditional medical establishment past the point of mounting any attack beyond horrified expressions of impropriety. Her progress had been slow, then more rapid and was now both brisk and profitable. The early reliance upon the wives of respectable burghers and industrialists had given her a chance to polish her German and salt it with a hint of Swiss. Nothing, she thought with a smile, impressed a German quite so much as brisk professionalism and a Swiss accent.
All that had changed, almost overnight. A maidservant had come with a cold, then a few days later the servant’s lady had arrived under the ludicrous pseudonym of ‘Lady Waldsee’. The case had been trivial; the patient was past middle age and entering her menopause. If there was no cure, for menopause was in no way a disease, there were effective palliatives to ease the process. Then had come the midnight knock upon her door, the urgent summons to a gloomy townhouse where the Lady’s elderly husband lay writhing upon his silken sheets, a victim of angina pectoris. Dispensing nitroglycerin tablets to ease the pain of the attacks had been the easy part. Getting the Grand Duke of Hesse to change his regimen of rich foods and potent cigars had been more difficult, but with his return to health her career had been made. Though none of her male patients could publicly confess the scandal of consulting a female physician, the wives talked when they came calling on one another and the men spoke discreetly among themselves at their clubs. As her star had risen among the nobility, the attacks from her supposed colleagues of the medical profession had skyrocketed in frequency and ferocity. That was the reason for her late hours tonight, seeing to the building’s locks and bars and to the heavy safe. Two men had had tested her defenses to date, both burglars had returned empty-handed to their masters. Those men, prominent physicians, had received anonymous but pointed notes in a distinctly feminine hand hinting of evidence recovered, and the attempts had ceased. Despite the fact that her equipment would mean little to a doctor of the present day, the results she was achieving were bound to rouse jealousies again, hence tonight’s attention to her defenses.
The knock on the door had been thunderous but had not sounded particularly urgent. Three or four pounding blows followed by half a minute or more of silence, repeated at irregular intervals, had been the pattern. If there were any calls or shouts, she did not hear them – the new front door was massively thick and the walls were solid brick, a combination designed to guide intruders to the easier windows at the rear, where more subtle mechanisms now lay in wait. She had looked through the peep-hole and seen nothing more than a servant with a lantern; sighing, she had unbolted the door and heaved it open. Then the soldiers had stepped forward into the circle of lantern-light, respectful but firm, hands carefully not resting on the grips of their pistols. She recognized their unit badges and knew instantly that resistance would be worse than foolish: all four were of the elite security detail attached to the highest members of the government and of the General Staff.
They had given her time to fetch her medical bag, though the senior had politely insisted upon looking through it. If worst came to worst – and she did not think it would, though the presence of so many skilled soldiers was troubling – many of the items in her bag could be used more easily to kill than to cure, and others even more potent were secreted in the false bottom that the soldier had not found. Nor had anyone insisted upon a search of her person, an omission made necessary by class, propriety and manners, but one that was still most unwise. The coach waiting at the curb had been massive, the windows heavily curtained and the other seats occupied by the polite but stiffly correct security detail. There would be no looking out on the dark streets of Berlin, nor would there be a chance that anyone could look in. Black coaches trundling through the city in the dark of night would not be uncommon, nor could they safely be remarked upon lest the coach return to whisk away the nosy and the gossip alike. If a lady doctor managed to disappear from her office or lodgings, well… Kierianne Frost had no doubt that skilled and quiet men could descend at a word upon residence and office alike, and despite her little surprises, within hours no trace of her presence would remain. She had so admired German efficiency until it was turned her way…
She had known their location within a few feet, of course. Estimation of the speed of the coach and implanted knowledge of Berlin’s street plan had permitted her to track their progress on her internal maps without difficulty. If necessary, she was confident of her ability to deal with her guards. Even hard men like these had blind spots where women were concerned, and none of them had experienced cross-time martial arts or weaponry. When the carriage wheeled into the gated compound of a house belonging, according to her records, to the Grand Duke of Hesse, she relaxed a trifle. It was only when she dismounted from the coach that her unease returned, for the house was dark, silent and in disuse. The windows beneath the porte cochere were grimed with dust, the door streaked with some dark discoloration that might be mildew or rust, the hedges along the carriage lane untrimmed, the flagstone paving of the drive shot through with weeds. Outside the circle of the servant’s lantern the house was entirely dark. She hesitated before the solid black rectangle of the open portal, then entered, reassured that none of her escorts had tried to hurry her onward. Whatever awaited her, her guards did not think it should frighten her into resistance.
Inside, the air was musty and the furnishings hung with drapery. What might have been a magnificent entry was now a gamut lined by standing ghosts, white-shrouded shapes silent and unmoving. Beyond was another room with bare walls and floorboards; stripped, its former function was impossible to guess. The doors on the far side of the empty room were ajar and were flanked by more soldiers. As she entered, the doors were firmly closed behind her, her escorts remaining on the other side. This room was not empty, though it was large – very large, in the style of a manorial hall, with distant walls and an echoing vault to the ceiling. It was a room designed to impress, though its current moldering state spoke more of pathos than of grandeur. More dusty sheets veiled the furniture – was that a suit of armor? Was that a portrait on the wall, or a mirror, or something else? Were there book-cases behind those giant, looming shrouds, and if so were the books still in place? A part of her raged that books could be treated so, more blazed with hatred that
she should be treated in this fashion, but she restrained her emotions against later need. A heaped logs were blazing merrily in a fireplace of baronial size, though the size of the room limited the warmth and cheerfulness to a small semi-circle around the stone blocks of the hearth. An enormous table, bare of any covering linens formed a wall across her direct path to the oasis of the fire; the linens that had shielded its oaken darkness were now piled untidily in a corner. Past that table and placed comfortably close to the fire, a set of elegant chairs had been uncovered or brought from who-knew-where, rich leather upholstery like oiled flesh in the firelight. Overhead, the crystal pendants of massive chandeliers gleamed as though distant stars were nested in the ceiling. Here, too, she assumed years of disuse had taken their toll, reducing the splendor of cubic yards of crystal to a muted twinkle. Underfoot, the hall was flagged in hard, cold marble, a chessboard of black and white squares cut across by the long strip of faded red carpet set beneath the massive, wall-like table. Before the fire was a single rug stretching the width of the hearth, supporting the two chairs and a wooden side-table of a heavy but excellent design.
Doors opened, at the opposite end of the room from those opened for her. Frost had not gone looking for other doors, had not examined the windows. Her captors might not suspect how dangerous she could be, but she expected them to be thoroughly competent when it came to the dangers they did know. Guarding against an escape was not a duty they would take lightly. Had she found a door or window unlocked or unguarded she would not have used it, would instead have instantly rushed her captors through the locked door instead. An apparently unguarded portal could only have meant her captors intended to kill her in the act of escaping; charging a locked door with a half-dozen armed soldiers on the far side would be more probable of success than taking the obvious route. She did not turn from the fire as heels rang on the marble floor, though the spot between her shoulder-blades itched. The fire was warm, her hands were cold, and she would be damned if she gave her captor the satisfaction of an instant’s attention.
“You are wondering why you have been brought here.” The voice was cultured but pitched curiously high. Despite its unusual tone, it carried an expectation of complete obedience. She recognized it instantly, as would anyone acquainted with the great and powerful of Germany.
Prince Otto von Bismarck, Chancellor of the German Empire, 1875
“Not in the least, Prince Bismarck.” A faint gasp, no more than a brief inhalation, reached her ears; no ordinary mortal would have marked it. “I am wondering how the man who has made Europe dance to his tune for a decade could do something so pointlessly stupid.” A louder indrawn breath sounded but she refused to look back. “Not to mention dishonorable.”
“Madam! I have asked you here upon a great matter of state…”
She rode over his protest, rude and provocative. “You have kidnapped me at gunpoint, Herr von Bismarck.” She opened the organ stops for sarcasm and stomped on the pedals. “If the abduction of a helpless woman is a matter of state then perhaps you have confused diplomacy with war…” She paused for half a beat before thrusting home. “…again?”
Unexpectedly, he laughed, and she knew instantly that he was not laughing at her, or at himself, but in delighted appreciation. The sound was unnerving. She had counted upon being able to rattle her abductor, whomever it might turn out to be, had – foolishly but perhaps not fatally – depended on being able to take control of whatever might transpire. Clearly that was not the case at the moment, though she still believed the method had promise. She knew little of the Iron Chancellor beyond his reputation for devious brilliance and for a gluttonous appetite, but her first impression was of a man possessed of perception and monumental self-confidence. “Might I at least have the pleasure of hearing myself insulted from your face, Frau Kraft?”
She turned. “Frau
Doktor Kraft.”
“So you say. Very well! Though your colleagues dispute that title, I shall not. Will you sit with me, Frau Doktor Kraft?” She discounted his smooth agreeability as nothing more than the casual manners afforded by the strong to the powerless, but could see no better course of action than to comply. They moved forward together, arriving at the chairs almost at the same instant. He motioned gracefully and she sat; before easing his bulk into his own chair he rang a small bell. Instantly, a door opened and servitors flocked through with covered trays, buckets, covered baskets and armloads of linen. In moments a part of the great table disappeared under cloths, dishes, urns and platters. Another drape covered the small side table between the two seated figures; wordlessly, glasses were brought and filled with champagne and small plates of delicacies appeared at their elbows. She saw it for what it was – a warning that overwhelming numbers were attentive to the least sound.
Otto von Bismarck refrained from speaking until the last man had gone and the door had boomed shut. “Ahhh! Champagne. I adore it at all times.” Frost left her flute on the table, pouring tea from a floral Meissen pot instead. “Kraft is an unusual name for an Italian, is it not?” In between those two sentences he had plucked half a dozen opened oysters from their icy bed and knocked them back in rapid succession.
“My family were Swiss. Our village did not move, but the border did, and so we became Savoyards. My grandfather lost all when Napoleon’s armies burned the village. Our family moved to Padua and remained there. Once people understood we were not Austrian, we managed.”
“Italy is presently at war with Switzerland. Does this distress you?” The Chancellor accompanied the question with a careful scrutiny of her face, then apparently turned his full attention to half a roasted chicken.
“Padua has been swallowed up by the tyrant of the Sicilies, as Prussia has swallowed up the Germanies, Herr Chancellor. I never knew Switzerland; neither did my father or his father. My country is gone; a war is nothing to me. I should be more concerned with the present dispute between Austria and Russia, I think. If that comes to war it might involve us in Germany.”
Hard, narrow eyes and an overhanging moustache spoiled the effort devoted to his smile. “And why would you think there might be war, my good lady? The Emperors of Russia and Austria are devoted friends of our own dear Kaiser, and all wish for nothing more than peace.”
She laughed and said, “All I want is peace, and do have; and a piece of anything
you have.” She knew it was a quote, but could not locate the reference. “All I know is what I read in the newspapers, Herr Chancellor.”
He snorted but his eyes reappeared and he returned his attention to his plate. “Newspapers! Bah. They ought to know the dangers of printing anything you like. Irresponsible! We shall have to see…”
She nibbled at a tiny fish pastry, peeking at his balding pate under lowered lashes and readied her next barb. “Why do you not simply tell me who is ill, Prince Bismarck, and have done with this? Is it the Kaiserin? The Kronprinz? Perhaps yourself?”
She had timed it well, though not perfectly. His jovial mask slipped for just an instant but the rest of the champagne went smoothly down his throat without so much as a ripple. “I am interested in your politics, madam. You have been of service to those in high places, and thus become a person of interest.”
“You mean of course the Grand Duke, who is no admirer of yours since you took his dukedom and left him an empty title. Is the Kaiser not well, then?”
“Impertinent woman! The Kaiser is in perfect health!”
“Oh, my,” she said, coy and saccharine over a frozen lake of sarcasm. “As bad as that?”
Von Bismarck erupted from his seat and stalked to the fire, hands clenched into fists. A moment passed while he stared at the flames. When he turned, his face was entirely shadowed. “I can say nothing until I am satisfied as to your political beliefs and trustworthiness.”
“Doctors are not expected to have politics, quite the contrary.” she said, and pulled a pistol from her stocking. Bismarck went rigid and opened his mouth to shout but the hand that had plucked the pistol from its hiding place carried it smoothly to the table and set it on a napkin. “If I wished you harm, I could already have accomplished it.”
“That weapon does not give you security, nor is it for myself that I fear,” the Chancellor said in a basso growl. He hesitated, then returned to his chair. “Use that toy and you’ll be dead in seconds.”
“You’ll be dead before me, which should matter more to you, I should think. Now, an end to threats and on to business?”
He muttered, “Infernal woman”, then wiped his mouth with a napkin – hand carefully not straying near the little gun – and refilled his champagne flute. “What do you know of our politics, oh-so-apolitical doctoress-with-a-gun?”
“I said doctors were expected to have no politics, just as priests are expected to be chaste and bankers expected to be honest. Expectations so often fail, don’t you find? For myself, I wish my adopted nation to be powerful, respected and secure. Revolutionaries are children – they have no understanding of the proper relationship of the classes. As for the rest, I know very little except that the Kaiser is a conservative old Prussian Junker and his son has ideas of his own, yes?”
“It is his wife who bends his ear that way, I think. The Kaiser had his heart set on a Russian Grand Duchess but his wife wanted an English match and overruled him. Heaven knows she is the only one who can.” A pause, a sip. Bismarck gusted a sigh. “A Russian Duchess would be much easier to manage than Crown Princess Victoria, I promise you that. Always prattling about England, never satisfied with our German ways. The Kaiser can’t stand to be near her, but the Kronprinz defers to her in everything. The Kaiser’s mistake with Friedrich will not be repeated: no liberal education for their son, I tell you.”
She waited a moment, but the bald head remained turned to the fire. “I do not yet understand why I have been… consulted, if I may say that, since we have been an hour or more without even a discussion of a patient. I understand that you bear burdens, have information you cannot share. But the
delights of this midnight repast will soon pall, and where will we be then? I urge you again to tell me what you can, or send me home. I have actual patients to see tomorrow, whose ailments are more real than these… phantasms.”
The massive shoulders shrugged. “The Kaiser… is not well. His doctors believe it is a weakness of his heart, but they are divided, unsure. His brother suffered an attack and his mind never came back to us. You know this? The Kaiser is terrified, not of death, but of being wounded in his mind. The example of his poor brother is always before him. If you would consent to see him… Privately, of course…”
“This would have to be most carefully done,” she said warningly. “His own physicians will be insane with jealousy, and they
will find out, no matter what precautions are taken.”
Bismarck shrugged again, gargled a laugh. “The newspapers I can close if I must. His doctors I can frighten into obedience, the Kaiser, I cannot.. I serve at the pleasure of the Crown, and Friedrich would not waste a moment before showing me the door. He is young, and will reign long… and I need more time. Europe is unquiet; the newspapers have that correctly, blast them all. Germany is not yet secure. The Kaiser is an old man, but he is very wise. His son is young and thinks himself wise, and his wife is a powerful influence upon him. England required revolutions and civil war to come to the government they now enjoy, Germany has been a nation but a decade. We
must go more slowly. I
must have time.”
She stood. “I will undertake to examine him, at my usual rates, but I shall not have my diagnosis or methods questioned by the men who have persecuted and despised me. Take my advice or not, it is all one to me, but I will not debate it. You should have a word with the Crown Prince, also. It is best to examine a patient while they are healthy. Perhaps the Kaiserin, the Crown Princess and definitely the boy.” She raised a hand against the half-articulated protest. “Not by me, if you prefer, but by some reputable doctor. Soonest found is soonest mended… or soonest prepared. Now, please, take me home.”
He stood, giant upper body bulging beet-like from tapering hips and shanks, a tired old man with loose hair straggling over his bald spot and liverish bags beneath drooping eyelids.
“Very well, my lady doctor. You shall have your bargain.”