The Assassins

by Alan Bardos

  He turned and watched a roulette wheel spin, immediately drawn by its power and wondered if it would summon Libby back to him. She always appeared when he was winning.

  He cashed the last of his expenses money into chips. He was planning to try spread betting, in a low risk, low return strategy, but then he saw '19' emblazoned in gold on the green baize and he knew exactly what to do.

  *

  Laszlo Breitner surveyed the storeroom that acted as his office. It was a constant reminder of just how far he'd fallen. While his friends in Vienna and Budapest advanced their careers into grand offices, he worked in the basement of a provincial city hall. Breitner was usually phlegmatic about his situation, but the young Englishman had hit a nerve and brought home just how impossible his situation was.

  He'd hoped for a moment that this Johnny Swift was the answer to his prayers, but inevitably he'd proved to be just as unperceptive and frivolous as everyone else.

  Breitner thought he was onto something, a small thread through the labyrinth. He just needed a mythical hero, like Theseus, to follow that thread. He shook his head in disgust - he hated metaphor and had spent far too much time trying to think like the young dissidents he was tracking.

  Breitner had learnt his craft in the cold, hard world of the Intelligence Bureau of the General Staff, conducting counter espionage operations within the Monarchy under the mentorship of Colonel Alfred Redl, who at the time was considered to be the brightest and ablest officer in the Imperial Army. He'd completely transformed the Intelligence Bureau, introducing modern methods and equipment, and he had proved to be an inspiration to Breitner.

  After years of isolation serving in the Ninth Hussars, Breitner had found that he possessed an aptitude for this line of work and earned a transfer to Intelligence.

  The Ninth was an elite Hungarian cavalry regiment, famous for its dash and revelry, with promotion dependent on whether or not you were a daredevil rider and gambler. Breitner was only ever going to be a junior adjutant, responsible for mucking out the stables. They were bad days: he wasn't popular with the young bloods who thought nothing of betting a month's pay on the turn of a card. The young Englishman had reminded Breitner of them, which, he realised, was why he'd taken such a dislike to him.

  He was starting to feel that he should have stayed in the cavalry - his life would have been simpler. The last time he'd pulled a thread like this, everything had unravelled.

  A sharp knock at the door interrupted Breitner's reflections. 'Come in!' he shouted, annoyed with his self indulgence. An official looking middle-aged man, who undoubtedly wished to store something in his office, entered. 'Yes, what is it?' Breitner asked impatiently.

  'Sorry to disturb you, Mr Breitner. My name is Ivo Vila. I'm a detective here in Sarajevo. I understand you're interested in information about dissidents coming into the area, from Serbia?'

  'Yes, that's correct,' Breitner replied, trying to soften his tone. He didn't want to alienate a potential source. Not having either the time or the resources to set up a comprehensive network of informants, Breitner had to rely on the varying cooperation of acquaintances and the local police for first hand reports.

  Vila looked uncomfortable about what he had to say. 'I met the son of an old friend on the train returning to Sarajevo. My friend is a solid, respectable person, a confidant - but his son, well, his son was expelled from Sarajevo for radical behaviour. He went to Belgrade and fell in with students and such like.'

  'I see.' Could be something, probably nothing, Breitner mused.

  'There wasn't anything suspicious about him. We just discussed the impending visit by his Imperial Majesty, the Heir Apparent.'

  Breitner's attention pricked. 'His name?'

  'Nedeljko Cabrinovic,' Vila replied. Breitner knew that name. He stood up and started to shuffle through his notes, trying to remember where he'd heard it before. 'Was he old or young?'

  'Just a boy - nineteen, I think.'

  'And he was returning from Serbia. Was he travelling alone?' Breitner was firing off questions more to himself than to the detective. ‘When was this?’

  ‘A week ago.’

  ‘You’ve waited a week to tell me this!’

  'I mentioned it to my chief and was told to leave it alone. Nedjo hasn't got a prison record, his expulsion has been expunged and his father is a friend.' Vila coughed; he was going behind the boss's back, any more information would cost. Breitner knew he’d have to make his first tug on the thread. He threw down everything that was in his wallet - a month's pay.

  *

  General Oskar Potiorek, the military Governor of Bosnia and Herzegovina, was in no mood to take any chances. He preferred to administer his provinces from the comfort and security of his residence. However, he'd felt compelled to come to Ilidza and oversee the conversion of one of the Hotel Bosnia's rooms into a chapel for the Archduke's devotions on the Sunday morning of his visit.

  The conversion had cost over forty thousand golden crowns, not an inconsiderable part of his budget, but General Potiorek felt it was money well spent. The Archduke was an extremely devout man, who'd publicly rebuked Conrad von Hotzendorf, the Chief of Staff, for not attending mass during the autumn manoeuvres.

  The Governor was determined that that would not happen to him. The Heir Apparent had already twice blocked his attempts at promotion and he felt he couldn't leave something as important as the conversion to his subordinates, so he had decided to make a spot inspection.

  Since inviting the Heir Apparent to come to Sarajevo after the summer manoeuvres, Potiorek had taken it upon himself to personally supervise every detail of the stay, from the temperature at which the Heir liked his wine served, to the correct length of the stirrups he used.

  Potiorek had staked a great deal of his reputation on the success of the Royal visit, in the hope that it would boost the prestige of the Monarchy in the provinces. He'd replaced Varesanin as a "strong" governor three years previously and was expected to top a brilliant career by becoming Chief of Staff, and he wasn't going to fall now at the last fence.

  His inspection had been satisfactory and now he could retire to the Konak, his splendid residence, for the evening. He was still feeling uneasy, as he knew it would take just one simple event to set the Archduke on a rampage and to ruin the visit and his career.

  He saw a tall youth with a short, black moustache and a sports cap in the hotel's lobby - exactly the type he didn't want loitering. General Potiorek, realised he’d left his security detachment outside and he was about to have them called when a coarse shriek echoed across the hotel lobby, striking horror into the Governor's heart.

  'Here, take your pound of flesh!' a lumbering great oaf in a frock coat was shouting as he was being dragged towards the exit by a croupier and a concierge. He shrugged them off and threw a handful of coins onto the floor.

  Potiorek was outraged; things like this simply could not happen. He stormed across the lobby towards the altercation, as the oaf continued his spectacle with the croupier.

  'I'm sorry, “sir”. We only accept official chips at the table,' the croupier was patiently explaining.

  'I don't have any official chips left!' the oaf shouted back at the top of his voice.

  'Then perhaps you'd like to retire from the game,' the croupier said. He wasn't having much luck pushing the man towards the door.

  'No, I wouldn't like to bloody well retire from the game. Don't you understand? I have to win it back!'

  'What the hell's going on here?' Potiorek demanded.

  The oaf gave him the same look of cold fury that the Governor had seen all too often on the faces of Serb students. 'This lackey refuses to take my note.'

  The croupier bowed, embarrassed as he recognised the Governor. 'I'm sorry, Excellency. The gentleman has lost rather heavily.'

  Potiorek addressed his comments to the Serb “child”. 'Young man, I don't take kindly to Serb ne'er-do-wells entering exclusive establishments and causing a scene.'

  ‘
You puffed up buffoon! I'm...' but before he could finish his sentence, a slight man in his thirties had run through the door, grabbed the oaf and kneed him in the groin, causing him to double up on the floor.

  The slight man tipped his hat to the Governor. 'Excuse me, Excellency. I'll throw this scum out.' The Governor eyed him suspiciously. He knew this man; his name was Breitner and he was a pariah – but he evidently had his uses.

  'Come on, you Serb riff raff!' Breitner ordered.

  'But I'm not...' the hapless oaf yelped, cut off as Breitner kicked him in the face, and then, with the aid of the croupier and the concierge, started pulling him up, ripping his frock coat in the process.

  Chapter 17

  Johnny felt battered and sick as he came round. He remembered being dragged down a corridor which stank of carbolic. He thought he might have won something - he certainly felt as if he'd been in a rugby match. He remembered getting the beating of his life in the final of the inter-house cup, and still smashing his way through to score the winning try in the dying seconds of the game.

  The metallic screech of a door opening brought him back to the present. He was lying on the floor of a cell, his clothes in rags and his whole body throbbing. A slight figure was grinning at him from the doorway.

  'Good, you're awake. I trust you slept well?'

  'Breitner…' Johnny recognised him and tried to sit up. He didn’t understand how this had happened. He'd been winning and then it had all gone bad. Breitner had beaten him up and dragged him into the police station above the City Hall.

  'What the hell do you think you're playing at, Breitner? I'm a member of His Majesty's Civil Service.'

  'Call me Laszlo. This isn't one of your English public schools,' Breitner said, helping Johnny to sit up.

  'No? Well you certainly act as if it is.'

  'Do they teach you how to lose so ignobly, in those schools?' Breitner handed him a glass of water. Johnny spilt most of it, but enough went in to make him start to feel human again.

  'I didn't go to public school. Well, not one you'd have heard of, anyway.' Johnny didn’t think there was much point in trying to explain the subtleties of the English class system and the ranking of its schools.

  'That explains your rather ungentlemanly behaviour.'

  Johnny knew that Breitner was right; he'd made a total arse of himself. 'This assignment's a joke. I thought if I could win the money back - now look where I am.'

  Breitner smiled warmly. 'As it happens, you're in exactly the right situation to help me.'

  'Help you?' Johnny almost laughed at the barefaced cheek of it.

  'Yes, help me,' Breitner repeated impassively.

  Johnny pointed at the bruising on his face. 'You've got a very funny way of asking for help over here.'

  Breitner led Johnny out of the cell and into the medical aid room. An orderly started to clean Johnny's cuts while Breitner floated about in the background, ever the enigmatic foreigner. He turned abruptly as a young man entered the room.

  ‘Mihajlo Pusara, what do you want?’

  ‘Mr Breitner, I understood that you wanted a clerk to take notes.’

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘Forgive me I was told…’ The young man turned and looked in horror at the state Johnny was in, Johnny took an instant dislike to him - he was far too good looking. The last thing Johnny wanted was to be reminded that he might have lost his looks, thanks to this dandy little Hungarian.

  ‘This is a special prisoner - no one is to know that we have him. Is that understood?’ Breitner shouted and Johnny wondered if he might have had some kind of military training.

  ‘Yes, sir. I won’t mention it to anyone.’

  Breitner walked up to Johnny and grabbed him around the neck. ‘This boy is a troublemaker; he insulted the Governor last night.’ He slapped Johnny a stinging blow around the face. ‘I will show him how we treat troublemakers who insult their superiors. Now get out.’

  Pusara looked sickened as he left. Breitner turned his attention back to Johnny. ‘I am afraid that such things are necessary.’

  Johnny grinned back belligerently; he’d had worse from his stepfather and wasn’t going to show any weakness to a man like this.

  'Now you say you're here to report on the nationalist problem in the Balkans. Are you interested in how Austro-Hungary plans to combat nationalism?' Breitner asked, matter-of-factly.

  Johnny shrugged and fought the urge not to whimper, as pain raced down his back.

  'Franz Ferdinand plans to reform the Austro-Hungarian Monarchy when he takes the throne, creating a kind of federal state with Austria at the centre. He also plans to increase the franchise to include minorities within the Monarchy, thus reducing the power of my beloved Hungary; he thinks this will stem the rise of nationalism and stabilise the Monarchy.'

  'Will that be enough to stop you going the same way as the Ottoman Empire?' Johnny asked, enjoying the chance to put a dig in.

  Breitner grimaced at the comparison. 'In the West, you define a people by the borders of where they live. In the East, such boundaries do not exist; your nationality is what you feel in your heart and the blood that pumps through your veins. As I explained before, the Young Bosnians want to unite the South Slav people in some form of self-rule. The complications are endless, but the only thing you can be sure of is that they want to be free of Austria's corrupting influence.'

  The orderly finished dressing Johnny's wounds and left. 'A lot of our population are loyal to the Monarchy and will welcome the reforms, but the nationalists are not going to quietly submit to Austrian rule, with a few extra rights given to them as an Imperial gift,' Breitner added.

  Johnny tried to straighten himself up, but his shirt was too badly torn. The last vestiges of his identity had been ripped from him. 'It sounds as if you sympathise with them,' Johnny said.

  'I understand them. I am also subject to Habsburg rule, but ultimately I believe in the stability and security the Monarchy provides, which is something the nationalists fear. They don’t want the people happy and content, as part of Austro-Hungary.'

  'I need something a bit more substantial than that to tell my overlords,' Johnny said, giving up on his shirt. He was nowhere - no shirt, no money and no information worth a damn. Breitner handed him a clean, white shirt with a stiff collar and a pair of black trousers.

  'Put these on and we'll have breakfast.'

  *

  Breitner found his office even more cramped and stuffy than usual, as he prepared coffee for his guest. He wasn't sure if this was the right course of action, but he needed to find out what was going on. It felt incredibly like the debacle that had got him sent to this place. That had started with intercepted mail and a suspicious address.

  His career had been progressing nicely and when Redl moved on to continue his meteoric rise, everyone had moved up the ladder. The new chief brought in a system for checking suspicious mail, for which Breitner was responsible. It was dull but important work and it appealed to his meticulous mind.

  A routine check of a suspect package found that it contained a large amount of money and two addresses known to be used by Russian agents. He had had the package resealed and returned to the post office for collection. It was thought that a mole in the army staff was passing information to the Russians and the amount of money found suggested to Breitner that the package was the first thread in uncovering the traitor.

  Nothing happened for six weeks, then the package was eventually claimed by none other than Colonel Redl himself, the former chief. That was the day Breitner's career ended.

  His new office might be hot and stuffy but it was private; Breitner was thankful for that as he passed Johnny his coffee. Dressed in his new clothes, the young Englishman looked suitably belligerent. It sent a shiver down Breitner's spine to think that his plan could actually work.

  So far it had all been pretty textbook - beat the suspect up and then be nice to him. He’d even started to build a fairly credible back story fo
r him. Breitner offered Johnny some bread rolls and cold cuts. It had been simple enough to find him, after Detective Vila had alerted him to the arrival of the Young Bosnia cell. Breitner had telephoned all of the high end establishments in the vicinity and sure enough, a concierge at the Hotel Bosnia had encountered a young Englishman, purporting to be from the British Consulate. The rest of the plan had been the best Breitner was able to come up with on the spur of the moment.

  'Breakfast?' Breitner spoke in Serbo-Croat, wanting to see how good Johnny's grasp of the language was.

  'Yes, thank you.' Johnny started chewing the bread with some difficulty. Breitner suspected that his kick to the jaw might have been over zealous.

  'My job is to monitor the nationalist problem in Bosnia and report back to the Joint Ministry of Finance, whose administration it falls under.' Breitner knew this was going to be a risk, but there was no one else.

  'So tell me what's going on.' Johnny cringed as he bit on a loose tooth but somehow he managed to keep his composure. If it wasn't for the colouring of his cheeks it would have been hard to guess that he was in discomfort.

  'I've been receiving anonymous warnings of a plot to assassinate the Archduke Franz Ferdinand, when he visits Sarajevo this month.' Breitner watched as Johnny's face registered the news.

  'Is there anything definite?' Johnny asked, clearly assessing the information to see how it could be used to benefit him. ‘Do you think the threats are connected to the army manoeuvres your Heir will be attending?’

  'It’s reasonable to assume so, but these sort of rumours are not uncommon, Johnny. However, they tie in with information I've gathered from intercepted mail.' Breitner had seen a clipping announcing the Archduke's visit, sent from Bosnia, to one Nedeljko Cabrinovic, care of a cafe in Belgrade known to be a place where Young Bosnia dissidents congregated. Cabrinovic had also sent a number of postcards in allegorical form from a border town, but the meaning was fairly clear that an act of great Serb patriotism was being planned.