by Alan Bardos
'What are you saying, Danilo? I thought you'd received word that we are to carry on.'
'Are you ready for the spiritual crisis you'll have to face as you strive to conquer death?' Ilic asked. Nedjo sneered. In his view this was typical Ilic claptrap, theoretical and highbrow.
'We must strike now - the time for talking is over,' Trifko replied.
'Are those your words or Gavrilo's?' Ilic countered.
'The Heir must be destroyed,' Trifko said speaking quickly to hide his uncertainty, or so it seemed to Nedjo. 'He cannot be permitted to invade Serbia and stop the unification of the South Slav people.'
'Very well.' Ilic saw that there was no point in continuing. 'We should go over the plan. He unfolded a copy of the Bosnian Post, which detailed the route the Royal motorcade would be taking through Sarajevo. 'We'll be positioned between the bridges on Appel Quay.' Ilic pointed on the map, to where Cumurija Street led onto Appel Quay. 'The other cell will strike here, with Jovo and myself, as the tyrant travels to the town hall. Nedeljko, you will be opposite them, on the riverside.'
'I know where to stand,' Nedjo said curtly. He wouldn't be told what to do by the likes of Ilic.
'Gavro will be two hundred yards further up, near Lateiner Bridge. Trifko, you will be last, on the Emperor's Bridge.'
'What greater gift could I be given on my birthday?' Trifko smiled - he'd been given the place of honour, where Zerajic had stood when he died for the cause.
'Trifko, you and Gavrilo will be ready in case the motorcade takes a different route. Otherwise you'll be the last in line, if the tyrant gets past the others.' Nedjo knew they expected him to fail, placed out in the open by the river, with schoolboys.
Nedjo was on his third cake by the time Princip arrived. 'You have the weapons, Gavro?' Nedjo asked as he joined them.
'I do.' Princip handed Nedjo one of the flask-shaped bombs. 'Today we follow Obilic's path and kill the Sultan on Vidovdan.' Nedjo was glad to hear that Gavro's resolve hadn't been undermined by Ilic's constant talking. 'Remember, it has a twelve second fuse, so count to ten before you throw it.'
'And my gun?' Nedjo asked, tying the bomb to his belt.
'That's not the arrangement. You haven't had the training and there aren’t enough for everyone.'
Nedjo bristled at Princip's words. It had been bad enough that he'd been excluded from the planning of the outrage but now it was apparent that Gavro thought him unworthy of a pistol. Nedjo had been the one who’d received the newspaper clipping informing them of the tyrant's visit; he'd asked Princip to join him in the assassination and now Princip would rather give a gun to someone he hadn't even met.
*
Breitner returned to the Hotel Bosnia and made his way to the Archduke's suite. He was planning to see Franz Ferdinand before the Heir attended low mass. According to the meticulously arranged schedule, mass would start at 9.00am, in the room which General Potiorek had had specially converted into a chapel for the purpose.
The letter of authorisation still held sway with the local police, who let him pass without any difficulty. The Archduke's regular security detail were slightly more resistant, but eventually deferred him to the Archduke's staff. Breitner found himself ushered into the atrium of the Archduke's suite and face to face with the Archduke’s Chamberlain once again.
'This is most irregular, Herr Breitner,' the Chamberlain said, moving to block the doorway into the main apartments of the suite.
'I have to see His Imperial and Royal Highness. It's a matter of the utmost urgency.'
'His Majesty is not available,' the Chamberlain replied.
'I must insist.'
'You don't insist…' The Chamberlain was indignant, but fell silent as the double doors behind him swung open and Franz Ferdinand came out, followed by Colonel von Merizzi and a small entourage. The Heir Apparent was dressed in a light blue jacket and black trousers with red side striping, which Breitner recognised as the ceremonial uniform of a cavalry general. The oriental décor of the suite shone behind the Archduke like a sultan's harem. Breitner wondered if the Nationalists who planned to kill the Archduke would have enjoyed the juxtaposition of the present Imperial ruler taking on the trappings of the last.
'I'm sorry to disturb Your Imperial and Royal Highness,' Breitner managed to get out, caught off guard by the Archduke's sudden appearance. The Order of the Golden Fleece hung around the Heir’s neck - his country's highest award. The design of the medal always reminded Breitner of a sheep caught in an eagle’s talons, which seemed particularly appropriate for his present circumstances.
The Archduke's hussar’s moustache twitched with irritation, as he appeared to remember Breitner. When Breitner had tried to engage General von Hotzendorf as an intermediary the previous evening, von Hotzendorf had citied the audience which he and Breitner had had with Franz Ferdinand, after the Redl debacle. The General claimed it was the most unpleasant thing he'd endured as Chief of the General Staff. It was without doubt the worst thing Breitner had been through; he could still remember the shock he felt when the Heir Apparent roared that they should have hanged Redl in front of the whole army, rather than let him take his own life.
'Breitner the Hungarian. So this is the rathole you ended up in,' the Archduke said, as he studied him. Franz Ferdinand’s eyes were light blue with an inner bright blue iris, giving the appearance of two sets of eyes looking out. Breitner had found this disconcerting the last time they'd met; it made him feel as if ‘The Ogre' was waiting to jump out at him from behind the shadows of the Archduke’s affable persona.
'Well, what is it?' The Archduke asked.
Breitner couldn't speak, hypnotized by those eyes, which amused the entourage. The Archduke's valet handed his master a gold chain - Breitner had evidently caught the Archduke as he finished dressing. He watched as the Archduke put the chain on. It had seven gold and platinum amulets attached to it, each containing religious icons and charms to protect Franz Ferdinand from evil. Breitner gathered himself and prepared to do his duty; the Heir would need something slightly more tangible to ward off the bad tidings that faced him in Sarajevo.
'I regret I must ask Your Highness to cancel today's visit to Sarajevo. I believe there will be an attempt on your life.'
'Do you indeed?' The Archduke looked around at his aides, none of whom gave Breitner's statement any credence. 'Do you have any proof of this, Herr Magyar?'
'No, Your Highness,' Breitner replied. He was still hoping that Johnny might turn up and tell him what the Young Bosnians were planning. He'd checked his office before leaving Sarajevo, but there hadn’t been any messages from Johnny or reports of a body matching his description being found. Breitner had left word for Johnny to be dispatched to Ilidza if he made an appearance at City Hall.
That was about all Breitner could hope for. The idiocy he was currently engaged in would only serve to cause him further discomfort and damage, but he knew he must try everything. ‘Your Highness, there are Bosnian extremists in Sarajevo, planning an attempt on your life.’
'Your Highness, if I may? This… person is nothing more than a scaremonger,' Colonel von Merizzi said, trying to prevent all of his hard work from being undone. 'He's hell-bent on ruining Your Highness’s visit with these tales of woe.'
'I see.' The Archduke smiled at Breitner. 'We are all constantly in danger of death. One must simply trust in God, Herr Magyar.'
'Your Highness, you must understand that this is the Serbs’ national day and your presence is a tremendous provocation…'
Before Breitner could finish, the Archduke's face contorted with rage as 'The Ogre' jumped out of the shadows. 'Enough! I have made my decision. You say yourself, you can't prove a thing. I won't be dictated to by a “pinchbeck” Magyar! This constant questioning is everything I detest in your people! If you dare to contradict me one more time then so help me, there won't be a rathole deep enough for you to crawl into! You and your sort would do anything to keep me away from my subjects so that you can turn them agai
nst me.'
Breitner took a step back, propelled by the sheer force of Franz Ferdinand's anger. The Archduke stormed back into his suite, quickly followed by his entourage.
Breitner felt a hand on his shoulder and found that Colonel von Merizzi was next to him. 'You're staying with me, Breitner. I can't have you causing any more mischief today.'
*
Nedjo Cabrinovic left the pastry shop and walked up to Appel Quay, ready to face his destiny. He pondered whether he should record the moment in some way, for posterity. He was wearing his best suit and after the trouble he'd caused at home Nedjo felt he should leave something of himself for his family.
‘Why so glum, Nedjo - have you been stood up? All dressed up and no girl to impress?’
Nedjo grinned - his friend Tomo was walking towards him. They’d spent many a happy hour taking girls out along Appel Quay. Nedjo decided for sure then what he would do.
‘This will be a momentous Vidovdan, Tomo - a day of great deeds. We must record it with a photograph.’
‘Why not?’ Tomo readily agreed and they found an open photographer’s on Circus Square where Nedjo posed with the copy of Narod tightly rolled up in his hand and his arm discreetly covering the bomb under his jacket.
*
Gavrilo Princip crossed Lateiner Bridge and entered the park on the opposite bank. He needed to be as inconspicuous as possible and loitering at his position next to the bridge was a sure-fire way of attracting unwanted attention from the police.
‘Stop, Princip! Wait there!’The sudden shout sent a jolt of fear through Gavrilo and he spun round, trying to identify who was calling him.
Maxim Svara, the son of Sarajevo's public prosecutor, was coming towards him. Princip started to hurry away but a hand grabbed his arm.
‘Gavro, where are you going? You remember Maxim?’
‘What?’ Princip said with a start. It took him a moment to understand what was happening. ‘Spiric?’
Rather than the burly gendarme Princip had been expecting, he was being accosted by an old school friend.
‘We just wondered if you managed to pass your exams in Belgrade,’ Spiric said, as Maxim caught up with them.
‘No, I failed,’ Princip replied tersely, but then quickly realising his good fortune, he invited Maxim and Spiric to walk with him. There couldn’t have been a better ruse than taking a Sunday morning stroll through the park with the son of the public prosecutor, while at the same time blending in with the loyal subjects who'd gathered at the Ottoman style bandstand to listen to jaunty, marching music.
It all felt seductive and false, something his elder brother would have enjoyed. Gavro glanced up at the ramparts of the imposing police station that overlooked the park and wondered how many more Sunday mornings like this there would be after today.
*
Cvjetko Popovic was frustrated by the change in weather. He'd been hoping for the rain to continue, so that he could wear a woollen cape that would hide the bulges the bomb and pistol made in his jacket. He was afraid that the cape would now make him look conspicuous in the summer heat.
Eventually, Popovic decided to risk the cape as the better option and made his way to Appel Quay, with the bomb concealed in his right hand pocket and the gun in his left.
Since he’d had the honour of being asked to take part in the assassination Popovic had existed completely for this moment. He'd stopped studying, ignored the news and barely noticed the jokes of his friends; it all seemed pointless and childish. The only thing he cared about was this day - the day he would take revenge on the tyrant for all his oppressive policies and the day he planned to die.
Popovic had lived the assassination a thousand times in his imagination. His friend in the second cell, Vaso Cubrilovic, would be at his side. Vaso would throw his bomb, stopping the Archduke’s car and in the chaos, Popovic would throw his bomb and open fire. He'd save the last bullet for himself, to use after he’d taken the cyanide which Ilic had given him.
Unfortunately, it would not happen that way now, Popovic reflected sadly; he would be with Jovo, a stranger. He found his place in front of the tobacconist’s, on the corner of Cumurija Street, across from the bridge, and he looked at the crowd gathering around him under the shade of the linden trees that lined the city side of the embankment. Ilic's face came into focus through the blurred sea of shapes.
'Where is Jovo?' Ilic asked.
'I don't know. I've just got here,' Popovic shrugged.
'Damn - I knew he was all talk. I'm going to check that the other two are in position, then I'll come back.'
'I can do my duty without a wet nurse!' Popovic was indignant.
Ilic patted Popovic reassuringly on the shoulder and moved out into the blurred mass around him.
*
Archduke Franz Ferdinand and his wife Sophie, Duchess of Hohenberg, glowed in the bright sunshine as they emerged from Sarajevo Station. Franz Ferdinand's uniform was now complete, with a gold-braided ribbon around his waist, white gloves and a peacock feathered hat. The Duchess was elegant in a white silk dress, an ermine fur over her shoulders and a wide brimmed hat. Breitner thought they presented a splendid target.
If Franz Ferdinand had taken Breitner's warnings seriously he certainly didn't show it, radiating calmness when General Potiorek invited him to inspect the honour guard, which was parading in full dress and service medals. These troops, in Breitner's opinion, would have been much better employed lining the streets, actually guarding the Heir. Franz Ferdinand smiled approvingly as the guard snapped to attention and presented arms.
Breitner stayed out of the Archduke’s way, surveying the crowd. Most of them were hard to see, packed under the shade. He wondered whether if it had kept raining it would have thinned the crowd.
'Look lively, Breitner. You're with me,' Colonel von Merizzi said, hurrying towards him.
'Days of rain and then sunshine today. How is anyone going to see gunmen with all of these people, Colonel?'
'Breitner, stop playing the fool,' von Merizzi said impatiently. 'You're not going to hold us up any more.' The Royal couple were running twenty minutes late and von Merizzi seemed to feel that this was Breitner's fault. 'His Majesty has also requested that the motorcade drive slowly, so that he and his wife might enjoy the sights.'
'Of course he has,' Breitner said with a sigh and allowed the Colonel to march him towards the fleet of seven cars that were neatly lined up outside the station.
The Royal couple were courteously guided to the third car in line. A sleek, Graf & Stift double Phaeton, its convertible roof had been neatly folded down and rolled behind the back of the car.
The Archduke helped the Duchess into the right hand side of the back seat and sat next to her, on the left. Potiorek perched opposite them on a pull down chair. Count von Harrach, an officer from the Transport Core, sat in the front seat next to the chauffeur. Breitner knew that the large touring car belonged to the Count and that he’d put it at the Archduke’s disposal. Seeing the Royal couple seated, Breitner climbed into the front of the car behind them, next to Colonel von Merizzi.
Breitner was slightly relieved to observe a detachment of the Archduke's Special Security police climb into the first car. Then, with Imperial black & yellow flags flying, the motorcade moved off towards the first item on the programme, the inspection of Philippovich Barracks.
Chapter 35
The bright sunshine gradually woke Johnny from the first proper sleep he'd had for weeks. He listened briefly to the bustle outside, finding it strangely restful and comforting, but it was part of a world that no longer concerned or interested him.
He pulled Libby closer, immersing himself in the silky warmth of her honey blonde hair. Some of the chips he’d forgotten to change the previous night fell off the bed with a gentle, reassuring clatter. It was exactly a year since he'd watched Mata Hari dance on his first day in Paris and had begun his decline into debt.
That was all over now. He was in the clear and had concluded
the sordid journey which Sir George had sent him on in a most satisfactory way.
'You are fantastic, Libby,' Johnny whispered.
'I know,' she murmured back, contentedly.
'Where did you learn to do that?'
'I told you - a very obliging general.'
'I didn't mean the gambling,' Johnny said. Libby turned over and slapped his face playfully. 'So, when shall we make our return to Paris? We must have won enough money to placate your husband and get my post back.'
'It'll take more than money to do that,' Libby said turning to face him. 'You'll still have to complete the report he asked for.'
‘You didn’t think that was very important last night, when you were persuading me to help you.’
‘Don’t be a bore, Johnny. The report’s important.’
'But what good is it going to do? Yes, the nationalists are very dangerous. Yes, they have the means and the will to do great harm.' The idea of having to write it all up didn't appeal to him.
'You're missing the point, Johnny. It's not about dotting the i’s and crossing the t’s; it’s about helping George further his career and providing him with something to dazzle his superiors. It was obvious that something was stirring between Austro-Hungary and Serbia, and he knew that you're an opportunist ‘street urchin’. If anyone could find out what was going on over here it was you. Either that or you'd have died in the process.'
‘I’m sure if I had died it wouldn’t have made much difference to you,’ Johnny said. Libby smiled and coiled herself firmly around him. As warm as she felt, he appreciated that Libby was as cold-blooded as they came. 'So if I could say that there was a plot to assassinate the Heir to the Habsburg throne, but that I'd foiled it and the Austro-Hungarian Government are deeply indebted to me, and that it is all thanks to Sir George - that would help, do you think?' he asked.
'I should think it would be useful.'
'Well, that's just what we'll tell Sir George, then. I'll pop along to see my chap in City Hall tomorrow, get my letter of commendation and we can be on our way.'