by Ken Follett
Where is Feliks?
Thomson and a policeman came out carrying Sutton. He was unconscious, or dead. Walden looked more closely. No, he was not dead: his pistol was gripped in his hand.
More slates fell off the roof.
The policeman with Thomson said: "It's a bloody mess in there."
Walden said: "Did you see where Feliks is?"
"Couldn't see anything."
Thomson and the policeman went back inside.
More slates fell--
Walden was struck by a thought. He looked up.
There was a hole in the roof, and Feliks was climbing up through it.
"There he is!" Walden yelled.
They all watched, helpless, as Feliks crawled out of the loft and scrambled up the roof to the ridge.
If I had a gun--
Walden knelt over the unconscious body of Sutton and prized the pistol from his fingers.
He looked up. Feliks was kneeling on the peak of the roof. I wish it were a rifle, Walden thought as he lifted the gun. He sighted along the barrel. Feliks looked at him. Their eyes met.
Feliks moved.
A shot rang out.
He felt nothing.
He began to run.
It was like running along a tightrope. He had to hold out his arms for balance, he had to place his feet squarely on the narrow ridge, and he had to avoid thinking about the fifty-foot drop to the courtyard.
There was another shot.
Feliks panicked.
He ran at top speed. The end of the roof loomed up. He could see the down-sloping roof of Montreal House ahead. He had no idea how wide the gap was between the two buildings. He slowed down, hesitating; then Walden fired again.
Feliks ran full tilt at the end of the ridge.
He jumped.
He flew through the air. He heard his own voice, as if distantly, screaming.
He caught a momentary glimpse of three policemen, in the alley fifty feet below him, staring up at him openmouthed.
Then he hit the roof of Montreal House, landing hard on his hands and knees.
The impact winded him. He slid backward down the roof. His feet hit the gutter. It seemed to give under the strain, and he thought he was going to slide right off the edge of the roof and fall, fall, endlessly--but the gutter held and he stopped sliding.
He was frightened.
A distant corner of his mind protested: But I'm never frightened!
He scrambled up the roof to the peak and then down the other side.
Montreal House backed on to the railway. There were no policemen on the lines or the embankment. They didn't anticipate this, Feliks thought exultantly; they thought I was trapped in the courtyard; it never occurred to them that I might escape over the rooftops.
Now all I have to do is get down.
He peered over the gutter at the wall of the building beneath him. There were no drainpipes--the gutters emptied through spouts, which jutted out from the edge of the roof, like gargoyles. But the top-floor windows were close to the eaves and had wide ledges.
With his right hand Feliks grasped the gutter and pulled it, testing its strength.
Since when have I cared whether I live or die?
(You know since when.)
He positioned himself over a window, gripped the gutter with both hands, and slowly eased himself over the edge.
For a moment he hung free.
His feet found the window ledge. He took his right hand from the gutter and felt the brickwork around the window for a handhold. He got his fingers into a shallow groove, then let go of the gutter with his other hand.
He looked through the window. Inside, a man saw him and shouted in fright.
Feliks kicked the window in and dropped into the room. He pushed the frightened occupant aside and rushed out through the doorway.
He ran down the stairs four at a time. If he could reach the ground floor he could get out through the back windows and onto the railway line.
He reached the last landing and stopped at the top of the last flight of stairs, breathing hard. A blue uniform appeared at the front entrance. Feliks spun around and raced to the back of the landing. He lifted the window. It stuck. He gave a mighty heave and threw it open. He heard boots running up the stairs. He clambered over the windowsill, eased himself out, hung by his hands for a moment, pushed himself away from the wall and dropped.
He landed in the long grass of the railway embankment. To his right, two men were jumping over the fence of the builder's yard. A shot came from his far left. A policeman came to the window from which Feliks had jumped.
He ran up the embankment to the railway.
There were four or five pairs of lines. In the distance a train was approaching fast. It seemed to be on the farthermost track. He suffered a moment of cowardice, frightened to cross in front of the train; then he broke into a run.
The two policemen from the builder's yard and the one from Montreal House chased him across the tracks. From the far left a voice shouted: "Clear the field of fire!" The three pursuers were making it difficult for Walden to get a shot.
Feliks glanced over his shoulder. They had fallen back. A shot rang out. He began to duck and zigzag. The train sounded very loud. He heard its whistle. There was another shot. He turned aside suddenly, then stumbled and fell onto the last pair of railway lines. There was a terrific thunder in his ears. He saw the locomotive bearing down on him. He jerked convulsively, catapulting himself off the track and onto the gravel on the far side. The train roared past his head. He caught a split-second glimpse of the engineman's face, white and scared.
He stood up and ran down the embankment.
Walden stood at the fence watching the train. Basil Thomson came up beside him.
Those policemen who had got onto the railway line ran across to the last track, then stood there, helpless, waiting for the train to pass. It seemed to take forever.
When it had gone, there was no sign of Feliks.
"The bugger's got away," a policeman said.
Basil Thomson said: "Goddamn it all to hell."
Walden turned away and walked back to the car.
Feliks dropped down on the far side of a wall and found himself in a poor street of small row houses. He was also in the goalmouth of an improvised soccer pitch. A group of small boys in large caps stopped playing and stared at him in surprise. He ran on.
It would take them a few minutes to redeploy the police on the far side of the railway line. They would come looking for him, but they would be too late: by the time they got a search under way he would be half a mile from the railway and still moving.
He kept running until he reached a busy shopping street. There, on impulse, he jumped on an omnibus.
He had escaped, but he was terribly worried. This kind of thing had happened to him before, but previously he had never been scared, he had never panicked. He remembered the thought that had gone through his mind as he slid down the roof: I don't want to die.
In Siberia he had lost the ability to feel fear. Now it had come back. For the first time in years, he wanted to stay alive. I have become human again, he thought.
He looked out of the window at the mean streets of southeast London, wondering whether the dirty children and the white-faced women could look at him and see a reborn man.
It was a disaster. It would slow him down, cramp his style, interfere with his work.
I'm afraid, he thought.
I want to live.
I want to see Charlotte again.
ELEVEN
The first tram of the day woke Feliks with its noise. He opened his eyes and watched it go by, striking bright blue sparks from the overhead cable. Dull-eyed men in working clothes sat at its windows, smoking and yawning, on their way to jobs as street cleaners and market porters and road menders.
The sun was low and bright, but Feliks was in the shade of Waterloo Bridge. He lay on the pavement with his head to the wall, wrapped in a blanket of newspapers. On
one side of him was a stinking old woman with the red face of a drunkard. She looked fat, but now Feliks could see, between the hem of her dress and the tops of her man's boots, a few inches of dirty white legs like sticks; and he concluded that her apparent obesity must be due to several layers of clothing. Feliks liked her: last night she had amused all the vagrants by teaching him the vulgar English words for various parts of the body. Feliks had repeated them after her and everyone had laughed.
On his other side was a red-haired boy from Scotland. For him, sleeping in the open was an adventure. He was tough and wiry and cheerful. Looking now at his sleeping face, Feliks saw that he had no morning beard: he was terribly young. What would happen to him when winter came?
There were about thirty of them in a line along the pavement, all lying with their heads to the wall and their feet toward the road, covered with coats or sacks or newspapers. Feliks was the first to stir. He wondered whether any of them had died in the night.
He got up. He ached after a night on the cold street. He walked out from under the bridge into the sunshine. Today he was to meet Charlotte. No doubt he looked and smelled like a tramp. He contemplated washing himself in the Thames, but the river appeared to be dirtier than he was. He went looking for a municipal bathhouse.
He found one on the south side of the river. A notice on the door announced that it would open at nine o'clock. Feliks thought that characteristic of social democratic government: they would build a bathhouse so that working men could keep clean, then open it only when everyone was at work. No doubt they complained that the masses failed to take advantage of the facilities so generously provided.
He found a tea stall near Waterloo station and had breakfast. He was severely tempted by the fried-egg sandwiches but he could not afford one. He had his usual bread and tea and saved the money for a newspaper.
He felt contaminated by his night with the deadbeats. That was ironic, he thought, for in Siberia he had been glad to sleep with pigs for warmth. It was not difficult to understand why he felt differently now: he was to meet his daughter, and she would be fresh and clean, smelling of perfume and dressed in silk, with gloves and a hat and perhaps a parasol to shade her from the sun.
He went into the railway station and bought The Times, then sat on a stone bench outside the bathhouse and read the paper while he waited for the place to open.
The news shocked him to the core.
AUSTRIAN HEIR AND HIS WIFE MURDERED
SHOT IN BOSNIAN TOWN
A STUDENT'S POLITICAL CRIME
BOMB THROWN EARLIER IN THE DAY
THE EMPEROR'S GRIEF
The Austro-Hungarian Heir-Presumptive, the Archduke Francis Ferdinand, and his wife, the Duchess of Hohenberg, were assassinated yesterday morning at Sarajevo, the capital of Bosnia. The actual assassin is described as a high school student, who fired bullets at his victims with fatal effect from an automatic pistol as they were returning from a reception at the Town Hall.
The outrage was evidently the fruit of a carefully laid plot. On their way to the Town Hall the Archduke and his Consort had narrowly escaped death. An individual, described as a compositor from Trebinje, a garrison town in the extreme south of Herzegovina, had thrown a bomb at their motor car. Few details of this first outrage have been received. It is stated that the Archduke warded off the bomb with his arm, and that it exploded behind the car, injuring the occupants of the second carriage.
The author of the second outrage is stated to be a native of Grahovo, in Bosnia. No information as to his race or creed is yet forthcoming. It is presumed that he belongs to the Serb or Orthodox section of the Bosnian population.
Both criminals were immediately arrested, and were with difficulty saved from being lynched.
While this tragedy was being enacted in the Bosnian capital, the aged Emperor Francis Joseph was on his way from Vienna to his summer residence at Ischl. He had an enthusiastic send-off from his subjects in Vienna and an even more enthusiastic reception on reaching Ischl.
Feliks was stunned. He was delighted that another useless aristocratic parasite had been destroyed, another blow struck against tyranny; and he felt ashamed that a schoolboy had been able to kill the heir to the Austrian throne while he, Feliks, had failed repeatedly to kill a Russian prince. But what occupied his mind most was the change in the world political picture that must surely follow. The Austrians, with the Germans backing them, would take their revenge on Serbia. The Russians would protest. Would the Russians mobilize their army? If they were confident of British support, they probably would. Russian mobilization would mean German mobilization; and once the Germans had mobilized no one could stop their generals from going to war.
Feliks painstakingly deciphered the tortured English of the other reports, on the same page, to do with the assassination. There were stories headlined OFFICIAL REPORT OF THE CRIME, AUSTRIAN EMPEROR AND THE NEWS, TRAGEDY OF A ROYAL HOUSE, and SCENE OF THE MURDER (From Our Special Correspondent). There was a good deal of nonsense about how shocked and horrified and grieved everyone was, plus repeated assertions that there was no cause for undue alarm, and that tragic though it was, the murder would make no real difference to Europe--sentiments which Feliks had already come to recognize as being characteristic of The Times, which would have described the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse as strong rulers who could do nothing but good for the stability of the international situation.
So far there was no talk of Austrian reprisals, but it would come, Feliks was sure. And then--
Then there would be war.
There was no real reason for Russia to go to war, Feliks thought angrily. The same applied to England. It was France and Germany that were belligerent: the French had been wanting since 1871 to win back their lost territories of Alsace and Lorraine, and the German generals felt that Germany would be a second-class power until she began to throw her weight about.
What might stop Russia from going to war? A quarrel with her allies. What would cause a quarrel between Russia and England? The killing of Orlov.
If the assassination in Sarajevo could start a war, another assassination in London could stop a war.
And Charlotte could find Orlov.
Wearily, Feliks contemplated afresh the dilemma that had haunted him for the last forty-eight hours. Was anything changed by the murder of the Archduke? Did that give him the right to take advantage of a young girl?
It was almost time for the bathhouse to open. A small crowd of women carrying bundles of washing gathered around the door. Feliks folded his newspaper and stood up.
He knew that he would use her. He had not resolved the dilemma--he had simply decided what to do. His whole life seemed to lead up to the murder of Orlov. There was a momentum in his progress toward that goal, and he could not be deflected, even by the knowledge that his life had been founded on a mistake.
Poor Charlotte.
The doors opened, and Feliks went into the bathhouse to wash.
Charlotte had it all planned. Lunch was at one o'clock when the Waldens had no guests. By two-thirty Mama would be in her room, lying down. Charlotte would be able to sneak out of the house in time to meet Feliks at three. She would spend an hour with him. By four-thirty she would be at home in the morning room, washed and changed and demurely ready to pour tea and receive callers with Mama.
It was not to be. At midday Mama ruined the whole plan by saying: "Oh, I forgot to tell you--we're lunching with the Duchess of Middlesex at her house in Grosvenor Square."
"Oh, dear," Charlotte said. "I really don't feel like a luncheon party."
"Don't be silly--you'll have a lovely time."
I said the wrong thing, Charlotte thought immediately. I should have said I've got a splitting headache and I can't possibly go. I was too halfhearted. I could have lied if I'd known in advance but I can't do it on the spur of the moment. She tried again. "I'm sorry, Mama. I don't want to go."
"You're coming, and no nonsense," Mama said. "I want the Duchess to get to
know you--she really is most useful. And the Marquis of Chalfont will be there."
Luncheon parties generally started at one-thirty and went on past three. I might be home by three-thirty, so I could get to the National Gallery by four, Charlotte thought; but by then he will have given up and gone away, and besides, even if he is still waiting, I would have to leave him almost immediately in order to be home for tea. She wanted to talk to him about the assassination: she was eager to hear his views. She did not want to have lunch with the old Duchess and--
"Who is the Marquis of Chalfont?"
"You know, Freddie. He's charming, don't you think?"
"Oh, him. Charming? I haven't noticed." I could write a note, address it to that place in Camden Town, and leave it on the hall table on my way out for the footman to post; but Feliks doesn't actually live at that address, and anyway he wouldn't get the note before three o'clock.
Mama said: "Well, notice him today. I fancy you may have bewitched him."
"Who?"
"Freddie. Charlotte, you really must pay a little attention to a young man when he pays attention to you."
So that was why she was so keen on this lunch party. "Oh, Mama, don't be silly--"
"What's silly about it?" Mama said in an exasperated voice.
"I've hardly spoken three sentences to him."
"Then it's not your conversation that has bewitched him."
"Please!"
"All right, I won't tease. Go and change. Put on that cream dress with the brown lace--it suits your coloring."
Charlotte gave in, and went up to her room. I suppose I should be flattered about Freddie, she thought as she took off her dress. Why can't I get interested in any of these young men? Maybe I'm just not ready for all that yet. At the moment there's too much else to occupy my mind. At breakfast Papa said there would be a war, because of the shooting of the Archduke. But girls aren't supposed to be too interested in that sort of thing. The summit of my ambition should be to get engaged before the end of my first season--that's what Belinda is thinking about. But not all girls are like Belinda--remember the suffragettes.
She got dressed and went downstairs. She sat and made idle conversation while Mama drank a glass of sherry; then they went to Grosvenor Square.