And then he saw the face.
A small man, hardly more than a boy, really, with a shock of dark hair that flamed away from his skull, in wild black swirls. The hint of a dark moustache, the hard eyes. He recognized him from the house of the Black Hand. He was standing only a few metres away, surrounded by the cheering crowd. The noise was deafening. The growl and chatter of the motorcars seemed to fill the universe. Ryzhkov squeezed his way through the crowd. For a moment he lost sight of the boy and when he located him he saw he had changed position, pushing his way up to the edge of the street.
Now came the first of the motorcars. Sarajevo’s mayor, dressed formally, waved at the crowd; beside him was the commissioner of the police, a gloved hand raised in salute. Ryzhkov saw the young Serb step out on to the kerb.
The second car was just passing; like the first, its roof had been folded back. He saw Franz Ferdinand, unmistakable in his famous silver helmet topped with a spray of black-green feathers; seated beside him, the duchess in her immaculate white dress, smiling at the crowd.
Suddenly his eye caught Hokhodiev as he jumped out into the street; another of the Serbs was right beside him, his arm raised to throw a bomb. At the last moment Hokhodiev reached him, slapping at his shoulder. The two of them collided and the young Serb slipped down on to the cobbles.
The bomb looked like a dark ball, so small as to be almost comical. It arched above the street heading straight for the Hispano. The terrorist had been late, or perhaps Hokhodiev had spoiled his aim; the bomb fell short, bounced on the roof’s leather cover and rebounded against the back of the duchess’s neck. She looked startled and reached back to see what had hit her. By that point Hokhodiev had stumbled over the terrorist, thrown himself out into the street and nearly reached the back of the car.
Ryzhkov heard someone shouting; a military officer who was riding in the royal car got to his feet and was turning halfway around. Just ahead of him the young Serb had reached into his coat and stood there poised waiting for the car to come into range. Hokhodiev was trying to climb up the rear bumper of the car, slapping at the little black bomb that wobbled there, its fuse fizzing and hissing, he managed to knock it off on to the street and fell down, vanishing from Ryzhkov’s sight behind the great Hispano.
From across the street people were was screaming. The bomb-thrower had picked himself up from the gutter and plunged into the crowd. He reached the edge of the quay and tried to climb the wall and escape down to the nearly dry river bed, but the crowd was on him and he vanished, pulled down into the mob.
Now the bomb exploded on the cobbles beneath the third car with a sharp crack that sent everyone in the street cowering. The car went crazily out of control as one of the wheels shattered. He saw Hokhodiev, knocked down to a sitting position by the blast, get to his feet and fall back into the crowd. Two blue-clad Austrian police constables ran up behind the stricken car and plunged in after him. The whole street was filled with the smell of burning chemicals.
Suddenly the young Serb was brushing right past Ryzhkov. For a moment their eyes met, and then he was gone, pushing his way through the mob. Ryzhkov turned and began chasing him along the quay. The boy was just a fleeting shadow, appearing and disappearing through the crowd.
He followed as best he could. There was a loud roaring and the archduke’s motorcar raced along the Quay, much faster now, the crowd jumping out of its path at the last moment. He stumbled off a high kerb and looked around frantically. He was dripping with sweat. The boy was gone, nowhere, vanished into the heat-haze. Ryzhkov went back and stumbled up a side street. There was a flash of black, someone in a cheap suit veering off the street into the maw of the cathedral. He stayed over to the side of the street, trying to hide in the shadows as he ran up the hill.
Even with the doors open it was cool in the great stone building. Someone came in behind him and he whirled, thinking that the student might have come around and was attacking him, but it was Dima. His shirt was soaked and he had pulled out the shirt-tail to conceal the pistol in his waistband.
‘Have you seen Kostya?’ he spluttered.
‘No, did the police get him?’
‘I think he got away, but I saw you running so I thought—’
‘He came in here—’ Ryzhkov said and the two of them divided and started walking deep into the cathedral down the aisles at the side. The building was virtually empty. By the time Ryzhkov got to the apse, he was running ahead. There was a sound in front of him and he rushed forward to an exiting doorway. The light hit him as he pushed through the heavy door and immediately a gunshot rang out, it sounded doubled in his ears and a spray of rock dust and splinters flashed in the corner of his vision.
He fell to the flagstone steps automatically, pulling his knees up into a ball even as he groped for his pistol. The boy was already running away too far for a shot at the corner and over the fence behind. Dima stepped over him, Ryzhkov rose to his seat and together they ran towards the corner.
‘He’s a fast bastard,’ Dima spat as they dashed across the street. A few old women jumped out of the way, watching the three crazy men chasing each other through the streets.
They found themselves moving higher through the city. The boy was gone now and they came upon a fountain in a square and they each put their mouths under the spigot and drank long cold draughts while the other stared around at the dark doorways, one hand on the butt of his pistol, waiting for a shot to ring out.
Now ahead of them was the town hall, and another crowd which had gathered at the steps. The cars were lined up, and Ryzhkov stood there for a moment, the archduke’s itinerary flashing through his memory. He knew that the young assassin hadn’t given up on his mission. On the steps the mayor was concluding his address. Ryzhkov saw the tall silver helmet, the blindingly white dress and picture hat of the countess. The words were echoing blurs against the stones of the buildings that ringed the square.
‘The boy has a pistol, he’ll have to get close to do any good,’ Ryzhkov said and once again he and Dima began to encircle the crowd, trying to pick out a single figure among hundreds.
There was a long rolling ‘Zivio!’ from the crowd. Men had hoisted their children on their shoulders for a better view. The mob was well dressed for the most part, Austrians and the better-off Muslims. A sea of dark faces, red fezzes, starched white shirtfronts and dark jackets. The dignitaries had repaired inside the hall for refreshments.
As Ryzhkov meandered through the crowd, he picked up snatches of conversations. A pair of assassins had made an attempt on the life of the archduke, a man was saying. A bomb had killed one of the governor’s aides. No, two bombs had been thrown, a lady-in-waiting had been wounded and taken to hospital. A miracle of great fortune: the crown prince himself had heroically picked up the grenade and tossed it to the safest place possible — beneath the car following his in the parade. No, dozens had been killed, including women and children. Soldiers were en route from the barracks on the west side of the city. Riots had broken out at the station. Pasic, the Serb Prime Minister, had made an announcement that he deplored the action of the terrorists—news of it had arrived by cable, but as proof of a gigantic conspiracy, the news had arrived before the bomb had even been thrown!
Ryzhkov moved through it all, pushing his way through the blur of conversations, the press of the citizenry gathered there in front of the huge façade. He worked his way around to the edge of the steps, looking at the crowd surrounding the vehicles. Now the police had put half a dozen constables around the cars as a cordon. According to the itinerary for the remainder of the day—the royal couple were due to visit the museum on the way back to their hotel in Ilidze. There would be another grindingly slow motorcade through Sarajevo’s twisting streets. From the doorway of the town hall he could hear chamber music drawing to a close. There was a ripple of polite applause. A man in Austrian military dress appeared at the top of the steps. Subordinates rushed to confer with him, and then hurried away. A second squad of policemen rus
hed out and began to push the crowd further out into the plaza. Ryzhkov recognized the military man, he had been riding in the archduke’s car in the front seat. Now he went along the line of vehicles, conferring with the chauffeurs; moments later the engines were started.
A flash of panic seized Ryzhkov; he found himself being pushed out to the edge of the street with the rest, his eyes travelled along the front ranks of the mob, trying to pick out the assassin. He saw Dima squirming through the crowd, earning dirty looks and elbows as he forced his way through. His gaze was dark and fixed ahead of him. Then Ryzhkov saw the boy again.
He had thrown away his cravat and grabbed a fez to conceal his appearance. He had yet to see Dima and now Ryzhkov pushed his way out past a policeman and began running towards him. Somewhere behind him a whistle sounded, someone clutched at his back. He saw the boy look up wildly as Dima charged through the crowd. At the last moment he turned and saw the young Russian plunge towards him. Ryzhkov was almost across the cobbles when a policeman spun him off balance and he slipped to one knee, another policeman was rushing towards him as he got to his feet and dived into the mob. The crowd was screaming, trumpets were sounding as behind him the archduke appeared on the steps. Now he saw the young boy savagely swipe at Dima with his pistol, connecting with his jaw and sending him to the pavement. They were only a few feet apart when the mob rushed forward to divide them.
Dima rolled over and shook himself. Ryzhkov was on his hands and knees, people were stepping all around them. Dima opened his eyes blearily, got up on one elbow. ‘I’m fine, I’m fine …’ he said, shaking his head again. Ryzhkov put an arm around him and hauled him to his feet. The young Serb was gone. Behind them there was a final cheer and the motorcade pulled away, heading back along the quay.
‘Go,’ Dima said, ‘Go … I’ll catch up with you. We meet at the seminary, as planned, yes?’
‘Find Kostya, watch out for the flics!’ he shouted but now the crowd had surged towards the plaza and they were separated like two twigs floating through a torrent.
He pushed his way to the edge of the plaza, began running down a side street leading to the quay. The route ran along the edge of the bazaar and the market was open now that the official ceremonies had concluded. Ryzhkov peered into the dark shadows, tried to remember the labyrinth of streets. Ahead of him he saw a dark head bobbing through the crowd, the face looked back over his shoulder, their eyes met and the boy turned and dug in his coat for his pistol.
Around him the crowd began to part, women screamed, a man slipped to the ground just in front of Ryzhkov. He suddenly felt naked, paralysed and terrifically vulnerable as, in front of him, the boy pulled the trigger. Something whizzed past him, sounding like an angry bee. Behind him the street erupted with screaming.
The boy dashed into the bazaar, upsetting an old woman who was tending a flower stall. Ryzhkov dug his pistol out and plunged after him, colliding with merchants and customers. All the time the screams were growing, an angry crowd forming behind them. He skidded through the debris the young man was leaving behind him in his panic, fell down, got back to his knees in time to see the Serb cut back out towards the street. Now there was the sound of car horns, a roaring of engine exhaust, and the gleam of brass shining in the sunlight. He saw the motorcade starting to pick up speed. The young terrorist must have seen it too—he was rushing along the edge of the market, his attention focused on the archduke’s car. Ryzhkov began running towards him as fast as he could. He had the revolver out and the hammer pulled back, stopped and aimed at the young man and pulled the trigger once, twice.
It only bought him a second—now the young Serb had plunged out of the market and was standing there in the doorway, oblivious to Ryzhkov’s approach. There was a great squealing sound as the Hispano braked to a stop at the corner by the bridge. Men’s voices cursing, a rising call of klaxons. The archduke was half-standing in his seat, saying something to the driver. There had been a mistake. The Hispano stopped, rolled forward, then shuddered into reverse gear. The duchess smiled and reached over to pat her husband on his arm. No one saw the boy from the Black Hand.
Ryzhkov screamed. It was supposed to be ‘Stop!’ but it came out as something animalistic, a great bellow of anger and regret. The boy turned and looked his way. His face was calm, almost sad. The dark eyes alert, piercing. He held his revolver down by his leg, and now raised it. Ryzhkov aimed, risking one more shot, too late. The bullet was high, passed the boy, over the street into the low river.
And then the boy stepped out into the street and shot his gun into the back seat of the Hispano.
The sound was like fireworks, two tiny cracks, like dry branches breaking. The archduke sat back like a man exhausted by the whole ordeal, reached up to touch his shoulder. His wife turned towards him. The Hispano was rolling backwards now, slipping away from the Serb. A man reached out and tried to slap the assassin’s gun away, two more were on him and the boy tried to whirl away, tried to run up the hill but now a police constable had him by the wrist and he spun around, held by his arms until they threw him to the ground. The policeman stood and saw Ryzhkov standing there, trembling, his pistol outstretched, poised and waiting to take a shot that would never come.
‘Halt!’ the policeman screamed, he raised his whistle to his mouth. There were howls from the people pressed all around him in the market. Ryzhkov turned and saw the sea of faces—someone was charging towards him wielding a wooden rake as a weapon. He slipped along the wall for a few feet; there was a sudden chorus of police whistles, and suddenly the light was blinding, the air in the street was like a hot pillow that had been pushed over his face. He threw the pistol into an open window and ran. He was crying and the street was a twisting, blurred illusion.
He ran, harder than he had ever run before.
Terrified now, terrified because he had failed. Failed utterly and completely. Terrified because Evdaev had won and because … because nothing had come out right, because he had left the woman he loved in a quixotic effort to put the world straight, because he was a fool, because he had always been a fool, because he had led his only friends into a death trap, and because now he was going to die there in that street, die in some alien capital for reasons that could only sound absurd when he would try to explain them to his final judge.
Behind him the voices were howling, ‘Assassin! Assassin!’
FORTY
Life was an afternoon in a manure bin, the gasses so strong as to nearly suffocate him. Pressing his nostrils to the cracks in the boards so that he could breathe, balanced the whole time on his hands and toes, so that he wouldn’t ruin his clothes because, by God, he had decided that he was going to walk out of there.
Death was the tolling of bells that had begun while he was waiting, tolling for at least one of the royals, he knew. And death was whatever would happen next, whatever inferno would be ignited by the iskra. Death was the echo of Evdaev’s laughing.
Life was everything he should have done, all the paths not taken, all of the happiness he’d eluded. He could have made it to Life, he thought. If he hadn’t been slowed down by the guilt he’d hoarded, the fear he had tried to bury. All the mistakes. He thought of Vera to take his mind off it while he waited there, balled up in the shit-pile trying to stay clean. Vera was Life.
Death was when they came through the yard, a whole family, picking up one of their children who lived downstairs, and death was when the old woman stayed behind to talk with her friend.
Life was when the two of them went inside because it was so hot in the courtyard.
Death was when he climbed over the fence just in front of two people walking along—a woman and her son, the boy dressed in short trousers and shoes whose shine had melted in the sun, and she clothed from head to foot with only a chaste window for her eyes. He walked away from them, afraid to look back.
Life was fresh air and his shaking legs carrying him along one street, and then two, and then another without the sound of police whistles all a
round him. He went into a shop that was on the corner and bought some bread, some cheese and pears and asked the shopkeeper to put them in a bag. He ambled up the street feasting on the first food he had eaten that day. Life.
And life was seeing out of the corner of his vision two men lounging on a park bench in the early evening, one of them sleeping in the shade of the big trees, the second smoking in the gathering blue darkness.
He walked up, asked for a match from Dima.
‘He’s hurt,’ Dima said quietly. ‘You can’t see it, he stuffed a towel in there.’ Hokhodiev looked like he was sleeping, his head pillowed on a coat Dima had picked up somewhere.
‘Hurt?’
‘I’ve got it, boy …’ Hokhodiev said. He hadn’t opened his eyes. ‘She’s got me good, I think …’ Now he saw that Hokhodiev was holding himself stiffly. His breathing was shallow.
‘It was just a little splinter. We’ve got to get him to a doctor,’ Dima whispered. Two elderly men walked by and they all muttered greetings to each other. They fell silent.
‘Where?’ Ryzhkov asked, watching the two men go. He pretended to fumble with the match.
‘Somewhere down here,’ Dima said and brushed the side of his shirt.
‘No …’ Hokhodiev said. ‘Just walk now …’ His voice was weak. It looked like he was trying to keep from moving.
‘Let’s get a carriage.’
‘No,’ Hokhodiev said. His voice was like a child crying.
‘I’ll go and find one and come back,’ Ryzhkov said. Hokhodiev tried to complain again but by then he was already gone, walking with purpose now, rounding the little square. Searching the street. There was a small restaurant open at the corner not far away. He got a boy to find him a cab, then he turned around and headed back so he could be there to help Dima move Hokhodiev into the carriage.
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