The Time Roads

“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.