The Assassins

by Alan Bardos

  'You must be patient, Gavrica. Now leave us in peace,' Ciganovic said, much to the amusement of his comrades. Gavrilo ignored them and turned away. He knew that all that he needed was the opportunity, and he would prove himself.

  Chapter 3

  A commissionaire escorted Johnny into the Embassy Chancery and left him to wait in the full glare of his colleagues. He was in a state of disgrace and Sir George wanted to make sure everyone knew it. The staff were certainly enjoying the spectacle and judging from their contemptuous looks they thought that Johnny would finally be getting his comeuppance. He hadn't seen people quite so gleeful since he'd been expelled from school.

  The gilded door in front of Johnny eventually opened and he was summoned into a large, elegant office. The Duke of Wellington had purchased the imposing Parisian town house from Napoleon's sister, Pauline Borghese, complete with Imperial fixtures and fittings. It was rumoured to have become Pauline and the Iron Duke's love nest, when he was ambassador to France.

  A hundred years later and Johnny could feel the puritan disapproval of the people now occupying the Embassy, conducted through the self-regarding figure of Sir George Smyth. Johnny was starting to think he should have returned to Paris when he was first summoned, instead of running up even more debt.

  'This is exactly the sort of behaviour one should expect from a person of your ilk,' Sir George said with distaste. ‘Left to your own devices you revert back to your primitive state, in much the same way that a perfectly good tennis lawn is ruined by a persistent and indestructible weed.’

  'Sir George, I…' Johnny began.

  'Damn your eyes, I'm speaking!' Sir George bellowed and then sat back, enjoying the Imperial splendour of his chancery rooms. He was thirty five, the same age as Napoleon had been when he crowned himself Emperor of France. Sir George liked to style himself as the Napoleon of the Diplomatic Service.

  'How on earth someone with your antecedents got into the Diplomatic Service is beyond me, Swift. Putting aside your questionable legitimacy, you're the son of a scullery maid.'

  'My mother was a governess,' Johnny replied as blandly as possible. He knew it didn't pay to rile these sort of people.

  'And your father is a school master? I can only assume you're here through nefarious means,' Sir George jeered. Johnny had found that the primary purpose of the Diplomatic Service was to provide outdoor relief to the aristocracy, not to be a means of social advancement to "jumped up louts".

  'I passed the entrance examination and board. My father - my stepfather - is a languages master, which helped.' Johnny had a fleeting image of an angry Welshman shouting at him, while he struggled to conjugate verbs.

  'Smacks of vulgar professionalism - it will never replace the patronage of breeding and the nobility of the gentleman amateur,' Sir George replied. He’d told Johnny often enough that administration should be practised as a sport - a leisurely sport, Johnny judged, from the copy of 'Le Petit Journal' on his desk. Its banner headline screamed the latest revelation from the Caillaux case, the current talk of Paris.

  'I do have a connection through my uncle, whose patronage was, I believe, of some assistance,' Johnny countered.

  'Well, your "uncle" can't help you now.' The note of sarcasm in Sir George's voice stung Johnny. He had clearly heard the rumour that Johnny's mother had fallen prey to the grizzled charms of a retired cavalry general. He'd remained something of a shadowy figure in Johnny's life, introducing him to all manner of vice, and to the Civil Service. Most importantly, he'd taught Johnny that discretion was the better part of valour.

  'Sir George, couldn't we settle this amicably, as gentlemen?'

  Sir George's refined features darkened. 'Gentlemen don't forge their superior's signature on gambling markers.

  'Gambling markers? Not...' - 'Not having your wife?' Johnny almost added.

  'Imagine my surprise when I received a demand for the immediate payment of my outstanding balance - on a debt secured under your snivelling name!' Sir George barked.

  Johnny felt himself flush. Betraying emotion was the worst thing one could do, but Libby had told him that the notes had been extended.

  'I did win the money back, briefly. Well, some of it.'

  Sir George was not amused. He detested flippancy, something Johnny had discovered to his cost. 'How did an ill-bred functionary manage to run up such astronomical debts?'

  'It was a redistribution of wealth,' Johnny shrugged. There was no way he could explain himself. He couldn't drop Libby in it, not just like that.

  Sir George turned deathly pale. 'If I could, I would have you thrashed and thrown in prison, but to avoid a scandal you will be quietly dismissed. I can't have you reflecting badly on me, as your direct superior.'

  Johnny looked again at the newspaper on Sir George's desk. Henriette Caillaux, the wife of France's former Finance Minister had gone to the office of Gaston Calmette and shot him four times with a Browning automatic, in reply to the smear campaign Calmette had been running against her husband.

  By comparison, Johnny's little indiscretion was relatively minor, but the damage it would do to Sir George's reputation in Whitehall multiplied its severity exponentially. Johnny grinned.

  'I don't know, Sir George. There's nothing they understand more in France than a cordial agreement between a man and someone else's wife.'

  'What the hell do you mean by that?'

  'The wife of a senior British diplomat forging her husband's signature to secure gambling debts for an ill-bred functionary, would I'm sure go unnoticed with the minimum of scandal, in France anyway.'

  Sir George was dumbfounded for a moment, then he looked coldly at Johnny, 'My wife... yes, I should have guessed that someone like you, born of scandal, would stoop to something like that.'

  Johnny watched patiently as Sir George got up and turned his back on him, slowly regaining his self control. After a moment he pulled down a large wall map of Europe and every iota of his brilliant and ruthless mind focused on one question.

  'What to do with Swift? Can't sack him, can't shame him - can't shoot the blighter.'

  'We could call it a pyrrhic victory,' Johnny offered. He knew it was a forlorn hope, but he had to suggest it, nonetheless.

  'What we need is some dangerous backwater. Pity the Boer War's finished.'

  'I hear the Caribbean can be perilous,' Johnny suggested. People posted there often complained about the heat and yellow fever, but he was willing to take his chances.

  Sir George paused for a moment and Johnny thought he might have cracked it. Unfortunately, Sir George chose to stab his finger onto the Balkans Peninsula.

  'Bosnia!'

  'Bosnia? Surely not, Sir George...'

  'The ambassador in Vienna compares Austria's trouble in the Balkans to our problems with the Transvaal. You speak the language of course?'

  'Russian is more my specialty. I lived -'

  Sir George cut him short. 'Our embassy in Vienna has requested someone to ferret about. Serb nationalism over there is becoming a nuisance.' He looked up from the map, gleefully. 'Yes, that's the poisoned chalice. At best you'll get your bloody head blown off, at worst you'll end up buried in some nowhere consulate, picking up goat droppings.'

  Johnny desperately tried to remember what he could about the place. Bosnia and Herzegovina had been put under Austro-Hungarian administration by the Congress of Berlin in 1878 to 'restore order' after they'd risen up against the Turks, but Bosnia and Herzegovina had remained part of the Ottoman Empire until Austro-Hungary annexed the two provinces in 1908.

  'Isn't Bosnia more Austro-Hungary's bag, Sir George?' Johnny asked in a bid to dissuade him. ‘It’s not really our business.’

  'The Balkans are the fault line of Europe, Swift. We don't want the delicate balance of power in the region upset by the Austrians, trampling their filthy great boots over it, especially after all of our hard work clearing up the mess from the last Balkan bunfight!'

  Johnny had heard Sir George rage about this oft
en enough. He'd been heavily involved with the Treaty of London, which had settled all of the territorial disputes in the area after the First Balkan War. It had been the pinnacle of his career. A month later, the Balkan states had fallen out again and the Second Balkan War had broken out, undermining all of Sir George's hard work. He’d taken it very personally and as far as Johnny could see, had maintained a morbid fascination with the region ever since. He considered it to be wild, unruly and above all, the backwoods of diplomacy - the converse of everything he held dear. Johnny could feel any hope he had of a career slipping away.

  'But surely, the Austrians can do what they want to stabilise their southern border?' Johnny persisted.

  'No, they bloody well can't. They're fanning the flames of pan-Slavic nationalism and if Russian influence continues to spread in the region it could drag everyone into a war.'

  'Do you seriously think that's likely, Sir George?'

  'Probably not, but that's not really the point is it, Johnny?'

  No, the point had been made pretty bloody clear to Johnny - he was banished to the wastelands of Europe never to return. He still had his post, and if he made a fuss now, he'd just look like he was blubbing and couldn't take his medicine.

  ‘Who exactly in Vienna do I need to see about all this?’ Johnny asked, accepting his lot.

  ‘I don’t know! Am I expected to be on intimate terms with every member of their embassy staff?’ Sir George answered, exasperated by Johnny’s lack of initiative. ‘Try Pinkie, he should know something about the Balkans!’

  Johnny walked towards the gilded door of Sir George's office; he doubted he’d see its like for a while. 'Oh, and Swift,' Sir George called after him. 'In the unlikely event that you do find out something useful on your travels, you're to bring it straight to me, is that understood?'

  'Yes, Sir George,' Johnny said a little too enthusiastically, clinging to the lifeline he’d just been thrown, however doubtful it might be.

  Chapter 4

  Gavrilo Princip looked at the people drifting past him in Green Wreath Square, each one of them creating a purpose for themselves, while he sat aimlessly outside the Cafe Moruna, with Nedjo and Trifko. Given the means, he would create more of an effect on their lives than these good people could have thought possible.

  He underlined a passage in the poem he was reading, 'Our Today' by Sima Pandurovic. It articulated everything he was feeling. Gavrilo may not have been able to express his ideas about love and life, or to extol the glory of his heroes as a poet, but he believed that something new and noble, a truly free anarchist society, would be created from his actions.

  Such actions however, were continually being blocked, and while he sat around in cafes, things were in motion in Sarajevo. He’d written to Danilo Ilic, his most trusted friend and confidant, telling him of the plot and instructing him to start organising a second cell in Sarajevo. They'd been friends since childhood and Gavrilo was certain that no one else but Danilo would be able to understand the allegorical style of the letter. Word had come back that Ilic was recruiting a second cell; all they needed were the weapons, but Gavrilo still had no news from Ciganovic.

  He listened to the melancholy tune of a guslar folk singer drifting across the square, retelling the tale of Milos Obilic, who'd faced the Turkish Sultan on Blackbird's Field. It reminded Gavrilo of his childhood and the smell of a wood fire as his family gathered to hear the mystical tales of their ancient heroes. He longed to continue his mystic journey and face his Sultan.

  Gavrilo rubbed an old wound he'd taken at the start of that journey two years previously, when rioting broke out across Austria's Balkan provinces, in response to the Austro-Hungarian Monarchy’s oppressive policies in Croatia. The most violent riots were in Sarajevo, where he'd marched at the head of the schoolboy protests and was sabred by the police for his dissent.

  The demonstrations had brought Serbs, Croats and Muslims together. Despite all of the in-fighting, they had been one. Gavrilo knew then that a full scale revolution could have an even bigger effect, uniting the South Slav people and obliterating their Habsburg rulers.

  He hoped that such an uprising could be achieved through individual acts of vengeance against the tyrants, destroying the most harmful people in the government and undermining its status, whilst instigating a rebellious heart in his people with the smell of blood

  'Gavrilo - the day has dawned.' Milan Ciganovic slapped him on the shoulder, bringing him out of his thoughts.

  'You have news, Cigo?' Nedjo asked as Ciganovic took charge of the group.

  Ciganovic grinned affably. 'Your waiting is over. Old Josef has fully recovered.'

  'Thanks be!' Nedjo shouted, drawing unwanted glances from the people around them.

  'There hasn't been an official confirmation, but I'm sure you can expect to greet the Heir in June and make your mark alongside your Balkan brothers who’ve taken up arms against the Austrians,' Ciganovic said.

  Gavrilo forgot the irritation of the past few weeks and sat up. They’d been inspired by a number of plots across the Balkans to assassinate leading members of the Austro-Hungarian establishment. Now he would be able to emulate them and with the death of Franz Ferdinand, ignite a revolution. 'It's been decided?'

  'The gentleman I've been discussing your request with wants to meet one of you for himself.'

  'Who is this gentleman?' Gavrilo asked.

  'My old commander, Major Tankosic,' Ciganovic replied.

  Gavrilo went silent, anger burning in his heart. Enduring poor health, Gavrilo had been determined to pursue his revolutionary dreams. He'd even been part of a group, with Ilic, who'd planned to assassinate the Emperor. His studies had eventually suffered and Gavrilo had been expelled from school. He’d gone to Belgrade and tried unsuccessfully to pass his exams there. A year later the second Balkan War had started, giving him a perfect opportunity to fight for the freedom of his people. Gavrilo cringed to suppress the bitter sting of that memory. He’d volunteered to serve in the Partisans and had become acquainted with Major Tankosic.

  'Nedjo, you should go,' Trifko suggested.

  Nedjo laughed, 'It would be an honour to show the Major what a true Serb hero looks like… but I laugh at everything. Gavrilo, you should go. You're always so sombre and grave.'

  Gavrilo couldn't suppress his anger any longer. 'I will not see Tankosic. He's a naive man! Trifko will go.''

  'What's this?' Ciganovic asked, taken aback by the snub.

  'Major Tankosic threw him out of the Partisans,' Trifko explained hurriedly, before Ciganovic could react to Gavrilo's insult.

  'Because he's so small and sickly,' Nedjo added, making Ciganovic laugh.

  Gavrilo bristled, reliving the humiliation. Tankosic had taken one look at him and dismissed him out of hand, but for Gavrilo, the worst part had come when he left. The other recruits had watched as he was led to the gate and a rival of his had shouted. 'So they've thrown out the bad stuff!'

  He went back to his studies after leaving the training camp, drifting between Bosnia and Belgrade, devastated, but he'd resolved to prove himself one day and continued to plan attempts against a Habsburg dignitary - plans that were frustrated and never realised.

  Ciganovic looked at Gavrilo, clearly deciding whether or not he still wished to vouch for him. Gavrilo met the former Partisan's gaze, his eyes blazing - nothing would stand in his way this time. Ciganovic nodded and turned to Trifko. 'Very well, Trifko, you must be the one. Do not be taken in by the Major's mild manner; he is a key figure in both the army and the underground movement. Ask any of the veterans here - the Major was a ferocious warrior during the war.'

  'Is it true that his men obeyed his orders to the point of jumping in rivers, if Tankosic so willed it?' Nedjo asked chuckling.

  'Yes,’ Ciganovic replied coldly.

  Chapter 5

  Major Tankosic waited as Ciganovic led a tall youth into his rooms, saluted and introduced the visitor he’d brought with him. ‘Major, this is Trifko Grabez
.'

  The youth shot Tankosic a defiant look. He and his friends had been pestering Ciganovic for weeks; now it was time to see if there was any iron to their zeal.

  'So you are one of the snotty brats who have been making a nuisance of themselves.' the Major declared. ‘You think yourself capable of taking action?’

  The youth did not flinch. ‘My friends and I wish to serve our people.’

  'And you are resolved to do so, even if it means sacrificing your life?'

  ‘Yes,’ Grabez replied plainly.

  Tankosic glanced at Ciganovic - he was satisfied. The Major had supplied weapons for similar operations before but nothing had ever been done with them and he doubted that they'd even been fired, however, the young dissident struck him as capable of doing what was needed.

  'Can you shoot a pistol?'

  'No, Major.'

  Tankosic took a pistol from his desk drawer and handed it to Ciganovic. 'Take this and teach them to shoot.’ He glanced back at Grabez. ‘I'll make the necessary arrangements for your return home.'

  He dismissed them and headed for Belgrade Fortress, the traditional halfway point between Constantinople and Vienna for warring armies. It bore the scars from centuries of battle; they'd almost come to symbolise Serbia's continuous struggle to resist invasion and subjugation.

  The Major saluted the sentries on the clock gate and passed into the upper town of the old citadel. The man he sought within these walls was the living embodiment of that struggle for freedom - Colonel Dragutin Dimitrijevic, Director of Serbian Military Intelligence.

  Tankosic entered the general headquarters of the army and was shown into Dimitrijevic's office. He was sitting at his desk hunched over a report. The Colonel had been nicknamed Apis, after the ancient Egyptian bull god, and Tankosic thought him well named. Dimitrijevic's strength and force of personality were immediate.

  The Major had been with him in 1903 when a cadre of officers stormed the Royal Palace, assassinating Aleksandar Obrenovic, the King who'd turned Serbia into an Austrian vassal, and his hated wife, Draga. Apis had been seriously wounded and still carried three bullets he'd taken that night.