In the darkness young men lay. Waiting.
Sleepless, or dreaming, staring into the blackness, thrashing about in their beds, about to become what they had always wanted.
Earlier that same day some of them had visited the cemetery to place flowers on the grave of Bogdan Zerajić, their compatriot who had been martyred in the midst of an unsuccessful assassination attempt on the governor. It was a small cemetery, meant for paupers and criminals, not at all well-tended, and the flowers they had brought were bright and artificial-looking against the parched grass on the hillside. After their prayers they looked up and saw it—Sarajevo, the gateway to the east. The heart of cherished Bosnia. Soon, yes, they had said to each other, making their young faces hard … yes, soon to be realized.
Oh, their names would be remembered, their fathers and uncles would nod their heads, bite back the tears, and take off their hats in pride. Girls of the village would swoon with their memory and shrines would be erected in their honour. Each one, now at the apex of this dark night, suddenly aware of his individuality, suddenly aware of the strength of their bond to the cause—the oaths they had sworn, the rituals and the promises made in blood, the obligations whose time had come round at last.
In the murky darkness the young men, unable to sleep, finally gave up, smoked, talked in whispers to their companions; admitted their passions, their fears, swore their loyalty to one another, then fell back into contemplation. Now a boy reclined, his head on the pillow, smoking, his eyes staring at the little packet on the table. Bullets enough and a little box with his cyanide capsule.
The ticking of a clock in the adjacent room, the sound of snoring, the sound of nightmares. The sound of their own breathing, struggling to remain calm, yes, Christ, to sleep, to husband their energies for what lay ahead. Death, quick or slow. Or capture and a last defiant suicide. Or the worst—failure. Death then was best. And if you die tomorrow, what then? The wait is over, yes?
Only a mile or two away, in the splendid villa that had been provided for their use, the Archduke Franz Ferdinand slept alongside his beloved Sophie. Did they dream? Did they snore? Did they find the covers too warm, did they roll over, their tranquillity suddenly disturbed by the approach of a demon yet to make himself known? In the great house others whose lot it was to rise in the very early hours had risen, were staggering to the lavatory, washing themselves, putting on their uniforms, bundling sticks into the stove, heating water—the ordinary start of an extraordinary day, for, graced by the presence of royalty soundly sleeping a few floors above them, they were nervous lest they fail in some domestic task.
In the city the multitudes were resting, clocks set to give them time to get to the quay for the morning’s procession. Clothing had been cleaned and laid out, the rudiments of breakfast already on the table, the most eager of the celebrity-seekers prepared for their planned early start to secure the best places with the best view of what all were sure would prove to be a memorable spectacle.
Andrianov waited in Vienna.
Treated himself to a grand dinner, a walk through the glory of the Vienna woods. The horizon, he reflected, was a perfect one, roses pierced with beautiful elms, the artfully placed sculpture—a virgin of purest stone, a perpetual advocate of the most exquisite and holy ideals of mankind.
All around him was the great seat of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, the much-vaunted Dual Monarchy. Waltz music of course, filtering up the slope of the hill. Gaiety and the light sophistication of the smug Viennese. The growl of a motorcar with a faulty exhaust accelerating on the ring road. The dark shadows of bats flitting through the gardens.
He returned to the hotel, ignored the telegrams Rochefort brought in on a tray. The money was piling up. He had diversified as invisibly as he possibly could. Brokers across the continent were already concluding a series of sales to take place under a variety of accounts held by Andrianov or his proxies. He made his reservations on the morning train, sent Rochefort away, poured himself a glass of champagne and went in to where the girl was waiting in the other room.
And the earth spun on its axis. The stars arced across the sky. Babies cried out, dogs barked and the owls fell silent.
And men waited for their time.
THIRTY-NINE
In the dawn he watched them coming up the hill. Hokhodiev had shaved, probably gone out in the very early hours and woken some barber, made himself look neat as a pin. He smiled as he crested the hill and saw Ryzhkov sitting there beneath the wall. ‘That Ukrainian fool went out and got himself a whore. He doesn’t look so good, if you ask me, eh?’
Dima was trailing up the cobbles behind him. It was still cool, not quite dark, but he had his coat off with the sleeves tied around his waist and was rubbing his head. He saw them and managed to raise one arm to wave.
‘This is very unprofessional behaviour,’ Ryzhkov said.
Hokhodiev laughed. ‘Don’t get him any more pissed off than he is,’ he said.
‘What happened?’
‘Who am I to know. Some problem with the girl. The price, who knows.’
Dudenko came and squatted down beside Ryzhkov. He had brought up a bottle, and now he hastily began to uncork it. He saw Ryzhkov’s look.
‘Don’t worry, it’s water,’ he said and took a long drink, then held out the bottle to Ryzhkov. ‘This might be my last time, right?’
‘If you’re lucky,’ Hokhodiev said and nudged him with his knee so that he fell over on to the pavement.
‘This is very unprofessional of you, I may have to reprimand you,’ Ryzhkov said. The water was a good idea, he thought.
‘Old man, I told you …’ Dudenko jerked the pistol out of his jacket, spun it round and round his finger, and then slipped it back in the jacket.
‘This is very unprofessional,’ Ryzhkov said. He got to his feet and shook his legs. His back was stiff from sitting there in the dark against the wall. ‘Let’s go, eh?’ The sky was starting to lighten. ‘Are you ready?’ He stepped out into the street. There was nobody down the little lane watching. He was sure of it. Everything was dark down there. He’d been on the look-out for two hours and had seen nothing. Dima stood up and came out into the street. He had his gun inside his jacket and was carrying it in his arms like a baby. ‘I’ll see you around the back, then,’ he said and started walking down the street. His shirt-tail was out and he had his arm wrapped up in his jacket for some reason; he looked just like what he was in reality, a young man returning from a whorehouse.
Hokhodiev walked out into the centre of the street and urinated.
‘This is all we need, to get arrested for public defecation …’ Ryzhkov said. His feet were still numb and he stood there jiggling one foot after the other.
‘It’s very unprofessional, I agree.’
Ryzhkov began walking up the street to the wall. It was low on one side and there was a lamppost there to climb up. A great olive tree curved over the bricks and the whole site was dark. Halfway up the street he stopped between two houses, turned and unbuttoned his trousers and urinated against the wall, still watching the house at the end of the lane. Nothing.
He could see Hokhodiev down at the entrance to the lane, looking up his way. He stepped out into the street. Down at the corner Hokhodiev lifted his hand.
He started towards the wall.
He stepped up on to the base of the lamppost and then dug his toes into the bricks. The plaster had fallen away in patches and he found a place and then pushed off the lamppost and reached his fingers over the stones—just a little flick, a pat with his fingers. It was all stone, rough enough. He stepped back on to the ledge of the lamppost and then jumped again, reached over and pulled himself to the top and then lay there for a moment on the top of the wall, listening and staring down into the gloom.
Just below the olive tree was a pen for what seemed to be two goats. A little shed that looked like its roof might hold. He let himself down on to the creaking goatshed and then jumped down as lightly as he could into the centr
e of the pen. He let himself out, left the door open, thinking that if he’d woken anyone that they might just think it was the goats. It might give him a few seconds. He could see under the edge of the eaves of the Black Hand’s house. He decided that if someone was out on the balcony he would be able to see them. He waited, watching for any movements. Nothing.
Ahead of him was the open courtyard, a series of steps up to the first floor of the house; he waited and then ran lightly across to the shadows on the far side. From somewhere a chicken squawked. Something moved in the darkness ahead of him as he made it across and started up the steps.
At the top he looked over on to the balcony, and then turned and lifted his head and tried to see Hokhodiev down in the lane. There was a shadow beneath the landing of the stairs leading to the balcony. Ryzhkov knew Dima was waiting back there to cut off the runners. He listened and gradually raised his head higher to look up on the balcony. From somewhere he thought he could hear singing. He got to his knees and stepped out and on to the wall. Stood there and counted to thirty to give Hokhodiev time to get up the steps.
Then he jumped.
It was wrong from the start—someone sleeping there in the shadows. A man he hadn’t seen. He woke as Ryzhkov hit the edge of the balcony, his knee shattering the grille that had been flung open because of the heat. Ryzhkov saw him jerk awake, try to roll over on the mat where he’d been sleeping, try to curl over and get to his knees. Ryzhkov balanced there on the railing, one hand holding on to the awning, reached into his belt, took out the revolver, and shot the man straight down into his body, so that he sat down again and fell back against the wall, a big spout of blood pumping out of his neck, one, two, three.
Now someone was yelling and he heard Hokhodiev shooting, once, twice and then another sound, a shriek, someone hurt badly, and by then he was through the curtains into the front room of the apartment. Something moved in front of him and he raised the revolver to shoot before he saw that it was Hokhodiev fighting with a man. They twisted past him and he saw one of the students coming out of the back room. He had a rifle in his hands and lifted it to aim. Ryzhkov stepped out of the window and started walking at the boy who he fooled with the bolt and shot him twice through the stomach. Behind him there was a great crash and he turned in time to see Hokhodiev smash a stool into the broken face of one of the students. There was a flash off to his side and he saw that there was someone there, someone who had been sleeping on the floor, back in the corner behind the stove. He turned but knew already it was too late.
There was a crashing at the doors, it meant someone was going in or going out and he could hear someone shooting outside. Dima … he was thinking, thirsty Dima … There was another flash and he shot at a man he could hardly see standing there in the darkness, not having time to aim, turning the corner and heading into the rear of the building.
Something hit him, someone running in panic through the gloom, and he fell back on to the floor. The Serbs were screaming at each other now. He put his hand out to get up but slipped in the blood of the boy lying there in the hallway. Someone ran past and he saw that Hokhodiev was down on the floor in the front room. There was a gunshot outside the door and he turned to shoot back but saw Dima standing there. Someone was wailing outside. He finally got up, turned away and stepped into the bedroom. The grille had been torn out and the tiles broken away outside the window. He heard men yelling in the back street.
Hokhodiev was waiting for him on the landing and they started down the stairs, stepping over one of the students, wounded, who was trying to crawl back up. He reached out and tried to trip them as they went past, his touch weak as a baby’s.
There were another six cartridges in Ryzhkov’s pocket and he filled the cylinder as they ran around behind the building. There were three of the Serbs ahead of them. They had another with them who was limping along. There was blood all over the stones there. The street curved down towards the river and they skidded downhill. There was a great yell and he saw Dima sprint past him. The Serbs rounded a corner and Dima plunged blindly around it, his gun raised to fire.
Ryzhkov arrived at the corner just as Dima shot the wounded student who had crouched there inside a doorway to ambush them, a stupid trick, the kind of thing you would do with snowballs. Below he saw the three Serbs glance back over their shoulders and then run into the market.
By the time they had got to the edge of the market, Hokhodiev had come up behind them, Ryzhkov watched him, he was running with a limp from the fight, the gun looked heavy in his hand. He worked his way into the narrow alleys.
At the end of the lane he could see people running back up the hill the way they’d just come down; he could hear the police whistles in the distance. He walked blindly through the market. Most of the stalls were shuttered, their awnings tied down. But there were some early risers. He saw Dima a few yards away walking briskly, bending over to check under the tables. There was a crack and he turned and looked towards the end of the lane, at the edge of the market, where Hokhodiev suddenly appeared, his arm raised, carefully aiming at someone and shooting once, twice.
They ran out into the street. He could see a smear of blood across Hokhodiev’s shirt. The merchants and their apprentices had woken now. An old man stepped out of a doorway in front of them. He was thin as a picked-over chicken leg and as brown as polished wood. He was dressed in a fez and a long white robe. He stood looking at them, and then bowed as they ran down the hill.
‘Are you all right?’ Ryzhkov asked Hokhodiev, pointing down to his shirt. Hokhodiev pulled his shirtfront up to look, shook his head. He was still running with the limp. Ahead of them the street was crowded and they slowed, he put the pistol back in his belt. The Serbs were too far ahead of them. Gone down towards the quay. In the distance there was a shrill whistle that echoed off the yellow buildings. A sudden flight of gulls lifted off the roof ahead of them.
‘The station …’ he said, and they stepped out on to the wide street that curved along past the cathedral.
They walked along now, suddenly tired, Hokhodiev taking his fedora off and wiping his brow on his sleeve. Dima ran past them, and crossed the street.
‘He’s wide awake now,’ Hokhodiev said.
In the distance he could hear military music, and ahead of them there were the first of the crowd crossing the street to be at the quay in time to stake out their favoured places for the parade. The street was a long one. He and Hokhodiev split up and he crossed, now about fifty metres behind Dudenko. They’d been lucky, Ryzhkov thought. Only Hokhodiev had been slowed down, and if they continued to be lucky perhaps the students would abandon their plans.
There was no sight of the three Serbs. They were gone, rushing ahead to either improvise an attempt on the archduke or to stop, retreat and plan a strike on some safer, less bloody day.
He rocked back on his heels as a police wagon dragged along by four sweating horses careered around the corner just ahead of him, rushing back up the hill toward the house of the Black Hand. By now word of the gunfight would have reached whoever was responsible for the security procedures for the archduke’s visit to the capital. Perhaps they would be prudent, cancel the parade … But he knew it wouldn’t happen. Austrian pride, if nothing else, would cause Franz Ferdinand to walk into a hail of bullets rather than acknowledge the Serbian threat, even in the most fractious province of the empire.
Down the hill he heard a strange crashing. For a split second he thought it was artillery and then recognized it as the firing of a salute as the royal carriage arrived at the station. He quickened his step, trying not to break out in a run. At every turn he scanned the side alleys for the three Serbs. Now, the task was harder. The streets were swelling with ordinary citizens, and the men had broken out their dark jackets even in the heat. He made his way to the Appel Quay. He had come out at a side street near the museum. There was a large plaza there and the crowd had gathered and were leaning out, staring down the street where the band was playing. He looked around f
or Hokhodiev and Dudenko, but they had become separated. His mind was whirling, trying to decide where to go, what to do next; trying to imagine what it would be like to be an angry, nineteen-year-old Serbian terrorist. He stepped through the crowd, pushing his way to the front, muttering apologies and trying to accent his speech towards the softer-sounding local dialect.
When he got to the street he craned his neck but could see nothing but a pair of Bosnian constables advancing along the edges of the cobbles, one on each side of the street telling people to step back on to the kerb. The crowd bowed as they went, then sprawled right back into the street. He began to edge his way along, allowing the man to push him back when they passed, then stepping out behind him and walking towards the procession. He could hear the crowd cheering ahead of him as the motorcade made its turn from the station and accelerated along the broader quay. Ahead of him he saw Kostya push his way out on to the street, cross to the embankment and start walking along a few metres ahead of the cars. Already the motorcade had slowed to accommodate the press of well-wishers. For a city supposedly divided against the rule of his dynasty, thousands of Sarajevans had come out to cheer the spectacle.
Now Ryzhkov saw the leading escorts, hussars mounted on twin matched greys riding in advance of the motorcars in an effort to press the crowd back against the shopfronts. For a moment Ryzhkov stopped, standing there in the centre of the street. Just ahead of him was a Sarajevo police constable, a middle-aged man with a red face and a big stomach. He was laughing with someone he knew. He looked over and saw Ryzhkov standing there. Ryzhkov smiled at him, nodded. Pointed down at the oncoming parade. The old man turned to look down the quay, and when he did, Ryzhkov stepped back into the crowd and began working his way back up the street. The matched greys reached him, the crowd rippled back on to the pavement. Constables were marching along the street, in a vain attempt to keep ahead of the motorcade. He saw Hokhodiev across the street working his way along, pushing people out of the way.
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