by Alan Bardos
'Swift, do stop showing off - it's rather vulgar,' Libby said, addressing him in the correct manner that the wife of a senior British diplomat should use when speaking to a member of her husband’s staff. 'Tell Mr Barton-Forbes why you're making a nuisance of yourself.' Trotsky, one step ahead of the forces of oppression, responded to Libby's tone by migrating to another table.
'Come on, out with it man. I haven't got all day,' Barton-Forbes ordered, eager to continue his conversation with Libby.
'I believe the Austro-Hungarians have a problem with pan-Slavic nationalism in their southern provinces,' Johnny said, not really sure where to begin.
'Yes, it's quite exasperating,' Barton-Forbes replied. He had a supercilious manner which Johnny longed to perfect for himself.
'I've been sent here to write a report for you,' Johnny said.
'For me? Reporting what, precisely?'
'Well, that's what I was hoping you could tell me.' Sir George hadn't said 'report' exactly, that was Johnny's interpretation. 'I had something of an open brief from the ambassador in Vienna - to ferret about, in fact.'
Barton-Forbes looked appalled. 'Ferret about? Sir Maurice de Bunsen doesn't request people to ferret about for him!'
'Could you give me details of exactly what you need to know about the Balkan nationalists?' Johnny asked, desperate for this to be over.
'His Britannic Majesty's Embassy in Vienna does not trifle with cranks and anarchists. We deal with governments, and even if we did deal with that type, we certainly wouldn't ask our colleagues in the Paris Embassy for help.'
It was obvious to Johnny then that Sir George had sent him on a wild goose chase, which must have amused him terribly.
'Where does that leave me? I mean, where does one even start?' Johnny asked. He at least needed to find out something to tell Sir George. 'There was a suggestion that I go to Bosnia.'
'Bosnia!' Barton-Forbes exchanged a wry look with Libby. This didn’t seem to him to be a job for a gentleman. 'Well, you could try the consulate in Sarajevo. They might know about the local state of affairs.'
'There’s a British Consulate in Sarajevo?' Johnny asked, trying to hide his relief.
'I believe so - there’s some old sweat down there who’s been sending reports regular as clockwork for twenty five years. If he’s not part of the Consulate then God alone knows what he’s about. Harding-Brown or something, I’d give him a nudge,' Barton-Forbes said and then dismissed Johnny with a curt wave of his hand. 'Now, clear off. Go and send your postcard or something, there's a good chap - the lady and I are talking.'
'Yes, I'll be ready to leave in an hour, Swift. Kindly have a cab ready,' Libby said, playing the part of his superior's wife to the full and then giving him a conspiratorial smile.
Johnny watched the imposing Gothic spires of the Rathaus drift past, as the cab drove them back to their hotel, along the Ringstrasse.
'Pinkie has invited me to stay on for a few days.' Libby's eyes sparkled as she spoke and Johnny didn't think he'd ever seen her so radiant.
It sometimes felt to Johnny that their whole relationship was defined by various car rides. The affair had even begun in a car, when Sir George had instructed Johnny to drive Libby around the boulevards of Paris in his Austin Endcliffe Phaeton 18/24, on her regular shopping excursions.
The idea that the innocuous office boy might pose any kind of a threat to his property or chattel didn't occur to Sir George, until Johnny crashed his car into the wrought iron railings of a metro station.
'You're staying here… with him?' Johnny fought to keep the disappointment out of his voice.
'Alternately, we could take a gamble; you could stay here with me and try to win the money back, Johnny.'
They'd spent most of the journey to Vienna arguing about this, Johnny reflected bitterly. Libby had insisted that they repay Sir George. Apparently, it was the right thing to do and she had a position in society and wouldn't have it threatened for the sake of a few brass farthings. The idea of compromising her marriage any further than she already had was totally unacceptable to her.
'We have to win the money back. I have no intention of ending up like one of your brothel women,' Libby continued.
'How are we going to do that?' Johnny tried to explain patiently for the hundredth time that Sir George wouldn’t risk the scandal of a divorce and that they had no money, which Sir George obviously knew, as he hadn't asked for any back and was happy with just ruining Johnny.
'Look, if you're not going to help me, go and do this nasty little job for George, then come and find me at the spa. I'll think of some way of winning the money back.' By all accounts there was a very acceptable spa near Sarajevo, soon to be patronised by the Austrian Heir Apparent. 'If you do a good job and we pay the money back, George might actually allow you to return to the Embassy, without destroying too much of your career.'
They drove past the Statue of Athena, outside the parliament building, and she seemed to look down on him - regal and daunting. Johnny turned back to Libby; he knew that in her own way she was trying to be kind and help him. He nodded his agreement - he would do as she asked, somehow.
Chapter 8
Gavrilo thought that the old oak tree had the same shape as a man's body, making it a perfect target for the test. Ciganovic and two of his associates from the Partisans, Djuro Sarac and Milan Mojic, had been teaching Gavrilo and Trifko to shoot for the past six days.
Sarac, who'd been Major Tankosic's bodyguard during the war, now wanted to assess them, so he paced out a firing position from two hundred metres and another one from sixty. The deserted forests around Topcider Park made a good training ground, evoking in Gavrilo the memory of Mihailo Obrenovic, a Serbian prince murdered in these woods by Austrian agents, as he planned to free Bosnia.
Gavrilo opened fire at distance first and managed to score six out of ten. Closing to sixty metres he hit with all eight shots and watched with satisfaction as chunks of wood and bark flew from the tree.
Sarac then ordered him to run past the target whilst firing. At two hundred metres Gavrilo scored two hits, but from sixty metres he achieved three. Gavrilo felt as if he was following in the traditions of his ancestors as he ran through the trees. They'd laid ambushes for smugglers and brigands in the woodland around their village in the Grahovo Valley, Western Bosnia, where his father and grandfather had risen up against the Turks and beaten them, before his homeland was given to the Austrians.
Sarac congratulated Gavrilo. 'You've passed.'
'Well done, Gavro,' Trifko added. ‘You’re the better shot.’
Gavrilo shrugged off Trifko's praise. 'I trained with a Browning before Tankosic threw me out of the Partisans,' he said with a scowl.
'This will even things out, Gavro,' Trifko said, excited to have passed the test. 'We will be the spirits of revenge - avengers for Mihailo Obrenovic.'
'You should get in close to do it, if you can stand to,' Ciganovic told Gavrilo, grinning.
'I will think of Obrenovic and everyone murdered in our cause,' Gavrilo answered flatly. He wasn't sure if Ciganovic was mocking him for his score over distance.
A guslar's song filled Gavrilo with nervous excitement; maybe one day the guslars would sing a song of his exploits to the students and dissidents of The Green Wreath. The idea amused him briefly but he wasn't interested in personal glory - all he wanted was a chance to prove himself.
Princip had his books and a paper to read as they waited for Ciganovic, but he couldn't concentrate. 'The Russian Tsar has been killed,' he announced.
Trifko and Nedjo looked at him doubtfully and neither of them cheered. Gavrilo shook his head in mock shame. 'I'm joking. I wanted to see what kind of revolutionaries you are and how you'd react.'
'How are they supposed to react to such news?' Ciganovic asked as he joined them.
'How any true revolutionary should react to the death of a tyrant,' Princip answered.
'The Tsars have been the saviours of the Slav people since Peter
the Great. Tsar Nicholas could be our only chance now against the Austrians,' Ciganovic replied.
'For Serbia maybe, but where were our Russian “big brothers” when we were annexed? Licking their wounds, after their humiliation against Japan. Maybe we Bosnians should look out for ourselves,' Gavrilo countered. Now he'd passed the test he did not feel quite so much in the shadow of the mighty Partisan. They were both after all Bosnians. Ciganovic was from a village not far from where Gavrilo had grown up.
'With a little help from our Serbian cousins, maybe?' Ciganovic, said indicating the sack he was holding.
Princip flinched at the jibe. He didn’t know if Ciganovic was playing devil’s advocate or if he believed Russia would come to their assistance, but he’d made his point.
Ciganovic smiled before discreetly handing him four Browning automatic pistols. The others looked around, but they were the only people there. Ciganovic carefully passed Princip the sack, which he opened. There were some boxes of bullets and six, plain grey, rectangular bombs inside, each the size of a large block of soap and fitted with a safety cap.
'They're not ideal,' Ciganovic explained. 'They're the offensive type of bomb, made at the Kragujevac arsenal and filled with nails and pieces of lead. They're meant for military operations.'
Princip guessed the bombs were surplus from the war. He knew Ciganovic had such bombs, which was why they'd approached him for help.
'To use them, unscrew the safety cap, then hit the loop inside against something hard to prime, and throw. They have a twelve second fuse, so if you're close to the target you'll need to wait before throwing it.'
Princip looked at Nedjo - the bomb would be his primary weapon. He'd had to work at a typesetter while they'd learnt to shoot. He was the only one of them with a trade and they were desperately short of money.
'You can't be caught in Serbia with these things,' Ciganovic said. Gavrilo nodded agreement. He knew that the Serbian Government was still submitting to Austrian demands, which included the curtailing of subversive activities in Bosnia.
'Wouldn't it be safer to send the weapons on to us separately?' Gavrilo asked. They'd travelled to and from Sarajevo many times; their main concern was how to do it safely with the weapons.
'What do you think we are, a bloody post office? If you want safe, stick to your studies,' Ciganovic replied tersely.
'We will take the weapons. We are not scared of a little risk,' Nedjo said.
'Good - a true hero. You'll be travelling underground to Sarajevo,' Ciganovic informed them.
'There is an actual secret tunnel into Bosnia?' Nedjo asked in awe.
Ciganovic grinned, not quite believing what he’d just heard. Gavrilo was furious with Nedjo for asking such a ridiculous question. He didn’t want to give Ciganovic any reason to doubt them, not now when they were so close, but in the end Ciganovic chose to ignore the question.
'You'll take the steamer to Sabac and once there, hand this to a customs official called Popovic.' Ciganovic handed Princip a card with his initials 'MC' written on it. 'Popovic will arrange for you to be smuggled into Bosnia. Once you're over the border head for Tuzla - you're familiar with the place?'
Trifko and Princip nodded; they'd both been to school there. 'If you feel it's not safe to take the weapons with you to Sarajevo you can leave them with a local merchant, Misko Jovanovic.'
'We'll need to buy train tickets,' Princip said.
Ciganovic handed him a purse and Princip counted the money inside - one hundred and thirty dinars. 'That's not enough,' he complained.
'This is all I have.' Ciganovic gave him another twenty. Nedjo's wages had been forty dinars and Princip had pawned his coat for eight. That would have to do.
'It won't have to last you long,' Ciganovic grinned. The black humour wasn't wasted on the three. Then Ciganovic gave Princip a glass tube wrapped in cotton wool. 'Remember, dead men tell no secrets,' he said, and with that, he left them.
Princip looked at Trifko and Nedjo as the words sank in. They knew what was in the vial - cyanide of potassium. Each of them understood what had to be done for their cause, and were willing to sacrifice themselves for their people, but this was the first time they'd come face to face with the prospect.
Gavrilo saw that now was the moment to unite their purpose. 'We must swear that we will never betray one another or our sacred mission. We will not talk to anyone on our journey or tell anybody our purpose.'
'I swear,' Trifko agreed.
Nedjo did the same. 'I swear.'
All three listened to the guslar sing. Their mystic journey was about to begin, walking in the footsteps of their greatest heroes.
Chapter 9
Archduke Franz Ferdinand watched as the sunlight started to fade over Vienna, the heart of the Empire he would reign over one day. The marble hall of the upper Belvedere Palace gave an excellent view of the skyline, dominated by St Stephen's Cathedral, the great target for Turkish cannon.
Prince Eugene of Savoy had built the palace after his great victories over the Ottoman Turks, the last major threat to come from the East. Savoy drove them back, sacked Sarajevo and took Belgrade, establishing the Habsburg Empire as the preeminent power in Central Europe and the Balkans. Franz Ferdinand wondered whether if his Habsburg ancestors could have retained Belgrade from the Turks, many of the Empire's current difficulties could have been averted.
He looked up to God in frustration and found himself staring at a large ceiling fresco depicting the eternal flame of Prince Eugene of Savoy, with history celebrating his achievements.
The Heir Apparent was fifty one and still lived in the shadow of other men's achievements, while he waited in the wings to ascend the throne of an Empire that was slowly disintegrating. It infuriated him, but there was nothing he could do until he succeeded his uncle as Emperor.
He marched out onto the balcony to calm his frustration and smiled as a lone coach pulled up in front of the porte-cochere. Some of his anger lifted - Sophie, his wife, had returned. If he'd accomplished one great deed it was to marry the woman he loved, the Archduke thought with satisfaction. He'd stood here before leaving to give his Oath of Renunciation, making that marriage possible.
Franz Ferdinand came back into the marble hall to greet Sophie. She'd been in her early thirties when they married. It was said that her beauty had been starting to fade but the Archduke disagreed and watching her as she entered the hall he knew that marrying her was the most intelligent thing he'd ever done. It was certainly the hardest.
Since coming of age, Franz Ferdinand had been subject to the Habsburg Family Law, which decreed that members of the family must marry a person of 'equal birth'. Franz Ferdinand had found the only appropriate princesses to be ugly, underdeveloped ducklings. He’d neither had the time nor the inclination to educate a wife several years too young for him.
It was inevitable that when somebody from his circle found a person they loved there was always some triviality in their family tree to make the marriage impossible, and so invariably, with such limited choices, a man and his wife were always related to each other twenty times over, with the result that half their children were cretins.
His cousin, Archduke Friedrich and his calculating wife Isabella, had had the temerity to think he'd be willing to form this type of union with their daughter, Maria Christina. This misconception developed because Franz Ferdinand was a constant visitor to their palace in Pressburg. When the truth was discovered, it caused a terrible uproar.
Franz Ferdinand's blood boiled at the memory. He'd forgotten his pocket watch after a tennis match in the palace gardens. Isabella had been brought the watch and was incensed to find it contained a miniature of Countess Sophie Chotek, her lady in waiting, and not her daughter. Isabella assembled her household and confronted Sophie with the picture. Shrieking, she denounced Sophie as a schemer who'd deceived her and betrayed her kindness, then she promptly dismissed her. Subsequently, Isabella ran to the Emperor and informed him that his nephew had trifled with
her daughter's affections, whilst forming an attachment with her lady-in-waiting.
Sophie came from a noble Czech family - her father had been a great diplomat for the Empire, but in court circles she was a glorified maid. The Archduke had established an understanding with Sophie five years previously and she'd been all that had kept him going through years of bitter illness and convalescence. He'd hoped to keep the matter quiet until the Emperor passed away and then, as head of the family, he could at last, marry whom he pleased.
The Emperor had demanded that he give Sopherl up but Franz Ferdinand refused. Franz Josef had married Empress Elisabeth, his Sissi, for love, and even though she was a lady of equal birth, it had been against his mother's wishes. The Archduke considered that to be the only thing his uncle had ever done for love. Franz Josef had then destroyed his marriage with protocols and unflinching court etiquette.
Considerable pressure was brought to bear on both Franz Ferdinand and Sophie, but in the end, the Emperor had little choice but to accept Sophie as Franz Ferdinand's bride. If he'd expelled Franz Ferdinand from the family his younger brother Otto would have been next in line and his scandalous life made that prospect impossible. Equally, Franz Ferdinand could choose to stick to his original plan and wait until the Emperor died, meaning that Sophie would then be crowned when they were married - something that Franz Josef could not allow. The only solution was a Morganatic marriage, with the Archduke renouncing his wife's and descendants' claims to the throne, which he did on the 28th June, 1900.
They were married three days later. He'd worn full dress uniform for the simple ceremony, which no male member of his family attended, though they had witnessed his Oath of Renunciation.