The Second Seal

by Dennis Wheatley

  “A few days later a general battle took place. After four days of severe fighting the Turkish army of the west was heavily defeated. I had taken the precaution to form a small reserve of about fifteen hundred picked men. To have flung them into the battle in its final stages could not possibly have influenced its outcome; so when the break-up of the army ensued I still had intact this well-disciplined body of reliable troops. All means of communication with my superior officers had been cut off, so I decided to retire through the mountains to the south-west, in the hope of finding some town having a Turkish garrison which I might reinforce or, failing that, eventually reaching the Turkish stronghold of Yannina in the Epirus.

  “By a forced march of twenty-four hours, I extricated my troops from any risk of being surrounded and captured during the aftermath of the battle. But it was now late November, so the cold and hardships that we suffered, as we continued our progress across the bleak uplands, were intense. In addition, the peasantry were bitterly hostile, which meant that to secure food enough to keep life in the bodies of my men I had to turn a blind eye to the methods they employed in forcing the wretched country people to disclose where they had hidden their cattle and secret stores of grain. It was a nightmare journey, which I would that I could forget, except for one thing—I still had my prisoner with me.

  “From the day I rescued him he realised that, guarded as he was by semi-barbarous troops who hated all he represented, if he were caught attempting to escape his life would not be worth a moment’s purchase. And later, when my men became desperate from privation, he knew his life to be really safe only as long as he remained within call of me: so day and night he kept in my immediate vicinity and made himself as useful to me in small ways as he could. In fact, he became my constant companion; and after the Turkish army had been so completely defeated at Monastir, there was no reason why he should longer refrain from discussing military matters with me.

  “None of the Turkish officers on my small staff had more than a smattering of any language other than their own, but Dimitriyevitch spoke French fluently. During those long, dark, winter nights we often talked for hours, as we sat, a bottle of ouzo between us, huddled in our greatcoats in the corner of one of the burnt-out farm-houses that I used as a temporary headquarters.

  “Gradually I got to know about him-partly because there was a streak of conceit in his evil nature, and at times when the ouzo had warmed him up the desire to boast got the better of his discretion; partly because he admired the way in which I handled difficult situations, and, seeing that the Turkish goose was as good as cooked, he hoped to induce me to enter the service of Serbia.

  “Bit by bit, he let it out that he was one of the officers who, nine years earlier, had personally participated in the murder of King Alexander and Queen Draga. He had been one of the prime movers in founding the Black Hand. He spoke with pride of its growth, iron discipline, and now nation-wide ramifications. It was he who told me that several members of the Serbian royal family and government are pledged to obey its orders; and that the secret council of the society would stop at nothing—not even the plunging of the whole of Europe into war—to achieve their final purpose of winning for Serbia a great Empire in the Eastern Mediterranean.”

  When the Duke ceased speaking the other two continued to regard him in speculative silence. Both thought that he looked remarkably young to have held the considerable field command with which he had been dispatched from Constantinople, yet recognised the natural air of authority in his bearing. Neither could quite decide how much of his story to believe, but they were much too polite to say so; and, after a moment, Sir Pellinore exclaimed:

  “Well, I’ll be damned! Pity, though, you didn’t leave this feller Dimibitch hanging by his heels. Still, you weren’t to know that at the time. But tell us the rest of the yarn. Did you manage to evade capture till the end of the war?”

  De Richleau nodded. “I lost a lot of my men through sniping, frost-bite, and some ugly skirmishes that occurred when at last we reached the vicinity of Yannina. The place was already partially invested, so I had to fight my way in; but the remnant I brought made quite a useful little reinforcement for the Governor. Having handed my troops over to him, I spent a few days assessing the local situation, and as it did not appear to me that the town could hold out for very long I decided to make my way back to Turkey. A fishing smack took me across the Adriatic to Brindisi, and from there it was easy to get an Italian freighter round to Constantinople.”

  “Well done! Damn good show! But what happened to your pal, Disivitch?”

  “I left him in Yannina. The Turks there were taking prisoners in the orthodox manner and treating them reasonably well, so I knew that he would come to no harm.”

  “Tell me,” put in the First Lord, “when you got back to Constantinople, did you report to anyone these extraordinary conversations that you had had with your prisoner?”

  “No, sir.”

  “May I ask, why? You are a British citizen; and a man of your position must surely have realised that our Ambassador would have been much interested in hearing what you had to tell.”

  The Duke’s strong teeth flashed in a smile. “Perhaps I ought to have done so; but the fact is that I did not believe the greater part of what Colonel Dimitriyevitch told me, at the time. About the Black Hand, yes. Its existence is more or less common knowledge in the Balkans; but not the extent of its power, that such highly placed persons were involved, or his own prominent position in the movement. I regarded him as a megalomaniac, obsessed with dark dreams of power. The study of his evil personality had fascinated me, but I did not consider him a danger to anyone outside his immediate circle, much less a menace to the peace of Europe.”

  “What, then, has caused you to change your opinion?”

  “I met him again a little over a month ago in Sofia. He told me that Serbia is now sufficiently recovered to undertake another war, and that the experience gained in her campaigns of 1912 and 1913 would enable her to put into the field the finest army for its size in Europe. He more than hinted that a pretext would be sought to attack Austria this coming summer, and he then offered me a high command in the Serbian army—which I declined on the excuse that I was still pledged to Turkey for some time to come.”

  “Do you really believe that he was in a position to make you such an offer?”

  “Indeed I do. What point would there be in his making it, if he were unable to secure such a post for me? And the very fact that he has sufficient influence to nominate generals for high commands gives the strongest possible support to the statement he made to me on numerous occasions while he was my prisoner. Namely, that he not only was a founder member of the Black Hand, but is to-day its Grand Master.”

  “You said yourself that at that time you considered him a megalomaniac. May it not be that he is still suffering from illusions of grandeur, and that all that he told you recently is pure moonshine?”

  De Richleau shook his head. “No. That is the terrible thing about it. And on this you can check up for yourselves. Dimitriyevitch is, in his own black way, as sane as any of us; and he is now the official chief of all the Serbian Intelligence departments. I need not stress the power that such a position gives him. He can report adversely upon highly placed officers and government officials who are not members of the Black Hand, and so secure the removal of all opposition from his path. He controls secret funds which he can use for bribery in cases where threats fail. His post entitles him to know the innermost secrets of Serbian diplomacy; and among his agents there must be men whom, under the pretext of national safety, he can order to commit assassinations. You see now how grave is the danger that I fear. What is there to stop such a man, in such a post, choosing his own moment and creating an incident that will lead to war?”

  While the Duke had been speaking, bursts of hearty cheering had broken out above them in the ballroom, and now the band struck up the Austrian National Anthem. Midnight had come; the revellers had unmasked,
and were openly showing their delight at the presence in their midst of the lovely Archduchess Ilona Theresa.

  Mr. Marlborough stood up. “You must forgive me if I leave you now, Duke, but I must pay my formal respects to Her Imperial Highness. Our talk has been most interesting. In fact, it will give me much to think about, and you may be sure that we shall not lightly dismiss the warning you have brought us. To procure for you a commission in the British Army is, I fear, beyond my powers; but if there is any other way in which I can be of service to you, pray don’t hesitate to let me know.”

  As de Richleau murmured his thanks, Sir Pellinore boomed:

  “Bit above my head, all this international stuff; but I’d like to hear more about your soldiering. Perhaps you’ll lunch with me one day? Where you staying?”

  “The Coburg,” replied the Duke. “And I should be delighted to lunch with you.”

  “Right! Drop you a line about that. Best leave you here, now, though; and spare the blushes of the lovely Archduchess, eh?”

  The three of them had just emerged from among the banked-up orchids. With a nod, and a twinkle in his bright blue eyes, Sir Pellinore turned away with the First Lord and, side by side, they crossed the broad, open space, beneath the centre of the marquee. As they reached the iron staircase leading up to the ballroom, he asked:

  “What d’you make of him, eh?”

  Mr. Marlborough’s heavy brows drew together. “It’s hard to say. He must know that we can easily verify his claim to have served the Turks as a general, so it is unlikely he was lying to us about that, and he certainly is no fool. He gives the impression of being both shrewd and honest; but perhaps he has deceived himself. I pray God that it may be so; for if he is right about Dimitriyevitch we will have even worse worries on our hands than the Irish business, before we are much older.”

  “He’s on to something, all right. I’d bet a packet on that,” muttered the tall baronet. “All he said ties up with bits of stuff that have been reaching me for months past. This Black Hand thing exists, of course. Has done for years. Not a doubt about that. So does Dimititch—or whatever the damn feller’s name is. Constant replacement of people holding big jobs in Serbia by comparatively unknown men has been puzzling me a bit. This amorous young Duke has provided us with a solution that’s all too clear. But what’s his game, eh? Has he been sent here to pull a double bluff? Is he on our side, or theirs? That’s what I’d like to know.”

  The First Lord nodded. “Yes. The sooner you have him vetted, the better. There should be plenty of information available about a man of his rank and past political activities. Get Vernon Kell to let you have all that is known about him. Of course, his request to be given senior rank in the British Army is quite preposterous. But he says that he is of British nationality and, if his heart is really in the right place, other work can be found for him. In fact, I believe a man having the qualities of this Duke de Richleau might prove invaluable to us.”

  “You’ve hit the nail on the head as usual,” boomed Sir Pellinore. “That’s why I asked him to lunch.”

  Chapter IV

  The Briefing of a Reluctant Spy

  Ten days after the masked ball at Dorchester House, four men sat round a small table in a quiet corner of the smoking-room at the Carlton Club. They were Sir Pellinore Gwaine-Cust, General Sir Henry Wilson, Sir Bindon Blackers and the Duke de Richleau. They had just lunched together and were waiting to be served with the liqueur brandies which they had ordered with their coffee.

  The Duke had already lunched with Sir Pellinore during the previous week, and had, moreover, spent two long evening sessions with him, at which they had talked far into the night in the library of the millionaire baronet’s big mansion, a stone’s throw away in Carlton House Terrace. So they now had one another’s measure; but de Richleau was meeting the other two men for the first time.

  As he took from his case, and lit, a long Hoyo de Monterrey cigar—a brand that he especially favoured, and he was a connoisseur of no mean order in such matters—his apparently casual glance rested on the face of first one then the other of his new acquaintances, seeking to probe the real personalities that lay behind the pleasant, carefree manner they had both displayed at the luncheon table.

  The General was a tall man with quick, humorous eyes, great vitality, and a hearty laugh. De Richleau knew a little, although not much, about him. He was Director of Military Operations at the War Office. He spoke French with great fluency, and was said to be the only British officer who had succeeded in winning the complete confidence of the French General Staff. Sir Bindon Blackers was slim and round-shouldered, with a fine domed forehead from which the hair was receding, and a large, fair fluffed-out moustache. About him, de Richleau knew nothing except that he was the Foreign Office representative on the Committee of Imperial Defence.

  A dark-liveried club servant of ecclesiastical mien reverently placed the brandies on the table and silently withdrew. When they had all sniffed and sipped the fine champagne appreciatively, de Richleau broke the brief silence by addressing the soldier and the diplomat.

  “Gentlemen, I have made my position plain to Sir Pellinore, and it might be as well if I do so to you. He has asked me, on behalf of the British Government, to undertake certain work abroad. I must state frankly that the mission proposed was not of my seeking, and is not to my liking. I am by trade a soldier and, therefore, accustomed to inflict such damage as I can on the enemy in the open. Having held high rank in several foreign armies, I am well aware of the value of secret intelligence; but never before have I visualised myself going out to get it. I have always admired the courage of those who do; but I am sure you will agree that to men of our standing the thought of attempting to steal papers in a house to which one has been invited as a guest, of pandering to weak men’s vices in order to blackmail or worm their secrets out of them, of seeking to win the friendship and confidence of people with the deliberate intention of betraying them, can only be repulsive.”

  “Oh come!” protested the General cheerfully. “You’re thinking of exceptional cases, Duke. It’s not usually as bad as all that, and to my mind serving one’s country justifies most things.”

  De Richleau nodded and rejoined a trifle coldly, “If it were not for that aspect of the matter, General, I should not be here. Sir Pellinore has been at great pains to point out to me that previous circumstances in my career, coupled with my considerable knowledge of military matters, provide me with such unique equipment for undertaking this mission with a fair chance of success, that I should be little short of a traitor if I declined it.”

  “So you would be,” growled Sir Pellinore. “It’s you who told us that this feller Dissiwitch has the power to dish out life or death for half the young manhood of Europe; and you’re already in his confidence. What other Briton can claim as much, and so stand a chance of heading him off—or, at least, finding out for us when he means to spring his mine?”

  “Dimitriyevitch,” corrected the Duke affably. “Anyhow, it suffices for the moment that I have agreed to take on this dirty work, granted one proviso. I insist on knowing the big picture.”

  “You hold the threads of this affair, not we,” smiled Sir Bindon. “So I hardly see how we can help you.”

  “Oh, yes, you can!” de Richleau smiled back. “At least, I am assuming that Sir Pellinore brought General Sir Henry Wilson and yourself here to-day for that purpose. I hold only one end of this tangled skein. Or perhaps it would be a better metaphor to say that I am the man who has an opportunity to watch the hand that holds the lighted match, but can see only a little way along the powder chain. Whereas you can see where it leads, and are in a position to give a reasonable forecast of the time, size, and immediate effects of the explosion when it occurs. And it is on such matters that I require all the information you can see your way to give me.”

  Sir Henry shrugged. “I honestly fail to see how our views on the opening moves in a European war can have any bearing on your mission.”
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  “Then I will tell you. My immediate task lies in Serbia, but I have no intention of confining my activities to that country should the possibility of securing valuable information prompt me to visit others. Among the numerous titles I inherited is that of an Austrian Count, and I own a castle no great distance from Vienna. My mother was a Russian, and her family are allied to the Romanoffs by marriage. So I have powerful connections in both those countries. I am also acquainted with the rulers of several minor German states, and have often shot with them in their forests. In fact, there are few countries in Europe where I do not know people of position, who could, if they would, disclose to me secrets of some importance.”

  “See what I meant?” grunted Sir Pellinore, with a knowing look at the General.

  Ignoring the interruption, de Richleau went on: “But unless I know roughly what to expect my opportunities will be robbed of a great part of their value.”

  The General nodded good-humouredly. He had been recalling his host’s parting broadside the night before, when he and Sir Bindon had dined in Carlton House Terrace. Sir Pellinore had boomed at him: “You’ve got to open up to this feller, Henry. I tell you he’s a smasher. Never get another chance like it to learn how the minds of the high-ups on the continent are working. I’ve had him vetted, and I’m satisfied he’s straight. Had the devil’s own job to persuade him to work for us. But now he’s agreed, he won’t stick at half measures, and if we’re to get the best out of him, we’ve got to give him the right stuff to go on. Not vital secrets, of course; but everything up the Staff College line; and on probable enemy strategy, a bit beyond it. After all, that’s still only speculation and we may have cause to modify our own views before the showdown. Dimthebitch is the feller I want to know about first and foremost; but, if I’m any judge, de Richleau’s capable of pulling all sorts of other rabbits out of the hat. Anyhow, since he insists on a high-level survey of the big picture, you and Bindon, here, have got to give it him. Understand?”