Fall of Giants (The Century Trilogy)

by Ken Follett

  Then he spotted a building that intrigued him. It was a bit like a hotel, except that two poorly dressed men in sailors' caps were sitting on the steps, smoking. "Look at that place," he said.

  "What about it?"

  "I think it's a seamen's mission, like the one in St. Petersburg."

  "We're not sailors."

  "But there might be people there who speak foreign languages."

  They went inside. A gray-haired woman behind a counter spoke to them.

  Lev said in his own tongue: "We don't speak American."

  She replied with a single word in the same language: "Russian?"

  Lev nodded.

  She made a beckoning sign with her finger, and Lev's hopes rose.

  They followed her along a corridor to a small office with a window overlooking the water. Behind the desk was a man who looked, to Lev, like a Russian Jew, although he could not have said why he thought that. Lev said to him: "Do you speak Russian?"

  "I am Russian," the man said. "Can I help you?"

  Lev could have hugged him. Instead he looked the man in the eye and gave him a warm smile. "Someone was supposed to meet us off the ship and take us to Buffalo, but he didn't show up," he said, making his voice friendly but concerned. "There are about three hundred of us . . ." To gain sympathy he added: "Including women and children. Do you think you could help us find our contact?"

  "Buffalo?" the man said. "Where do you think you are?"

  "New York, of course."

  "This is Cardiff."

  Lev had never heard of Cardiff, but at least now he understood the problem. "That stupid captain set us down in the wrong port," he said. "How do we get to Buffalo from here?"

  The man pointed out of the window, across the sea, and Lev had a sick feeling that he knew what was coming.

  "It's that way," the man said. "About three thousand miles."

  { III }

  Lev inquired the price of a ticket from Cardiff to New York. When converted to rubles it was ten times the amount of money he had inside his shirt.

  He suppressed his rage. They had all been cheated by the Vyalov family, or the ship's captain--or both, most probably, since it would be easier to work the scam between them. All Grigori's hard-earned money had been stolen by those lying pigs. If he could have got the captain of the Angel Gabriel by the throat, he would have squeezed the life out of the man, and laughed when he died.

  But there was no point in dreams of vengeance. The thing was not to give in. He would find a job, learn to speak English, and get into a high-stakes card game. It would take time. He would have to be patient. He must learn to be a bit more like Grigori.

  That first night they all slept on the floor of the synagogue. Lev tagged along with the rest. The Cardiff Jews did not know, or perhaps did not care, that some of the passengers were Christian.

  For the first time in his life he saw the advantage of being Jewish. In Russia Jews were so persecuted that Lev had always wondered why more of them did not abandon their religion, change their clothes, and mix in with everyone else. It would have saved a lot of lives. But now he realized that, as a Jew, you could go anywhere in the world and always find someone to treat you like family.

  It turned out that this was not the first group of Russian immigrants to buy tickets to New York and end up somewhere else. It had happened before, in Cardiff and other British ports; and, as so many Russian migrants were Jewish, the elders of the synagogue had a routine. Next day the stranded travelers were given a hot breakfast and got their money changed to British pounds, shillings, and pence, then they were taken to boardinghouses where they were able to rent cheap rooms.

  Like every city in the world, Cardiff had thousands of stables. Lev studied enough words to say he was an experienced worker with horses, then went around the city asking for a job. It did not take people long to see that he was good with the animals, but even well-disposed employers wanted to ask a few questions, and he could not understand or answer.

  In desperation he learned more rapidly, and after a few days he could understand prices and ask for bread or beer. However, employers were asking complicated questions, presumably about where he had worked before and whether he had ever been in trouble with the police.

  He returned to the seamen's mission and explained his problem to the Russian in the little office. He was given an address in Butetown, the neighborhood nearest the docks, and told to ask for Filip Kowal, pronounced "cole," known as Kowal the Pole. Kowal turned out to be a ganger who hired out foreign labor cheap and spoke a smattering of most European languages. He told Lev to be on the forecourt of the city's main railway station, with his suitcase, on the following Monday morning at ten o'clock.

  Lev was so glad that he did not even ask what the job was.

  He showed up along with a couple of hundred men, mostly Russian, but including Germans, Poles, Slavs, and one dark-skinned African. He was pleased to see Spirya and Yakov there too.

  They were herded onto a train, their tickets paid for by Kowal, and they steamed north through pretty mountain country. Between the green hillsides, the industrial towns lay pooled like dark water in the valleys. A feature of every town was at least one tower with a pair of giant wheels on top, and Lev learned that the main business of the region was coal mining. Several of the men with him were miners; some had other crafts such as metalworking; and many were unskilled laborers.

  After an hour they got off the train. As they filed out of the station Lev realized this was no ordinary job. A crowd of several hundred men, all dressed in the caps and rough clothes of workers, stood waiting for them in the square. At first the men were ominously silent, then one of them shouted something, and the others quickly joined in. Lev had no idea what they were saying but there was no doubt it was hostile. There were also twenty or thirty policemen present, standing at the front of the crowd, keeping the men behind an imaginary line.

  Spirya said in a frightened voice: "Who are these people?"

  Lev said: "Short, muscular men with hard faces and clean hands--I'd say they are coal miners on strike."

  "They look as if they want to kill us. What the hell is going on?"

  "We're strikebreakers," Lev said grimly.

  "God save us."

  Kowal the Pole shouted: "Follow me!" in several languages, and they all marched up the main street. The crowd continued to shout, and men shook their fists, but no one broke the line. Lev had never before felt grateful to policemen. "This is awful," he said.

  Yakov said: "Now you know what it's like to be a Jew."

  They left the shouting miners behind and walked uphill through streets of row houses. Lev noticed that many of the houses appeared empty. People still stared as they went by, but the insults stopped. Kowal started to allocate houses to the men. Lev and Spirya were astonished to be given a house to themselves. Before leaving, Kowal pointed out the pithead--the tower with twin wheels--and told them to be there tomorrow morning at six. Those who were miners would be digging coal, the others would be maintaining tunnels and equipment or, in Lev's case, looking after ponies.

  Lev looked around his new home. It was no palace, but it was clean and dry. It had one big room downstairs and two up--a bedroom for each of them! Lev had never had a room to himself. There was no furniture, but they were used to sleeping on the floor, and in June they did not even need blankets.

  Lev had no wish to leave, but eventually they became hungry. There was no food in the house so, reluctantly, they went out to get their dinner. With trepidation they entered the first pub they came to, but the dozen or so customers glared angrily at them, and when Lev said in English: "Two pints of half-and-half, please," the bartender ignored him.

  They walked downhill into the town center and found a cafe. Here at least the clientele did not appear to be spoiling for a fight. But they sat at a table for half an hour and watched the waitress serve everyone who came in after them. Then they left.

  It was going to be difficult living here
, Lev suspected. But it would not be for long. As soon as he had enough money he would go to America. Nevertheless, while he was here he had to eat.

  They went into a bakery. This time Lev was determined to get what he wanted. He pointed to a rack of loaves and said in English: "One bread, please."

  The baker pretended not to understand.

  Lev reached across the counter and grabbed the loaf he wanted. Now, he thought, let him try to take it back.

  "Hey!" cried the baker, but he stayed his side of the counter.

  Lev smiled and said: "How much, please?"

  "Penny farthing," the baker said sulkily.

  Lev put the coins on the counter. "Thank you very much," he said.

  He broke the loaf and gave half to Spirya, then they walked down the street eating. They came to the railway station, but the crowd had dispersed. On the forecourt, a news vendor was calling his wares. His papers were selling fast, and Lev wondered if something important had happened.

  A large car came along the road, going fast, and they had to jump out of the way. Looking at the passenger in the back, Lev was astonished to recognize Princess Bea.

  "Good God!" he said. In a flash, he was transported back to Bulovnir, and the nightmare sight of his father dying on the gallows while this woman looked on. The terror he had felt then was unlike anything he had ever known. Nothing would ever scare him like that, not street fights nor policemen's nightsticks nor guns pointed at him.

  The car pulled up at the station entrance. Hatred, disgust, and nausea overwhelmed Lev as Princess Bea got out. The bread in his mouth seemed like gravel and he spat it out.

  Spirya said: "What's the matter?"

  Lev pulled himself together. "That woman is a Russian princess," he said. "She had my father hanged fourteen years ago."

  "Bitch. What on earth is she doing here?"

  "She married an English lord. They must live nearby. Perhaps it's his coal mine."

  The chauffeur and a maid busied themselves with luggage. Lev heard Bea speak to the maid in Russian, and the maid replied in the same tongue. They all went into the station, then the maid came back out and bought a newspaper.

  Lev approached her. Taking off his cap, he gave a deep bow and said in Russian: "You must be the princess Bea."

  She laughed merrily. "Don't be a fool. I'm her maid, Nina. Who are you?"

  Lev introduced himself and Spirya and explained how they came to be there, and why they could not buy dinner.

  "I'll be back tonight," Nina said. "We're only going to Cardiff. Come to the kitchen door of Ty Gwyn, and I'll give you some cold meat. Just follow the road north out of town until you come to a palace."

  "Thank you, beautiful lady."

  "I'm old enough to be your mother," she said, but she simpered just the same. "I'd better take the princess her paper."

  "What's the big story?"

  "Oh, foreign news," she said dismissively. "There's been an assassination. The princess is terribly upset. The archduke Franz Ferdinand of Austria was killed at a place called Sarajevo."

  "That's frightening, to a princess."

  "Yes," Nina said. "Still, I don't suppose it will make any difference to the likes of you and me."

  "No," said Lev. "I don't suppose it will."

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Early July 1914

  The Church of St. James in Piccadilly had the most expensively dressed congregation in the world. It was the favorite place of worship for London's elite. In theory, ostentation was frowned upon; but a woman had to wear a hat, and these days it was almost impossible to buy one that did not have ostrich feathers, ribbons, bows, and silk flowers. From the back of the nave Walter von Ulrich looked at a jungle of extravagant shapes and colors. The men, by contrast, all looked the same, with their black coats and white stand-up collars, holding their top hats in their laps.

  Most of these people did not understand what had happened in Sarajevo seven days ago, he thought sourly; some of them did not even know where Bosnia was. They were shocked by the murder of the archduke, but they could not work out what it meant for the rest of the world. They were vaguely bewildered.

  Walter was not bewildered. He knew exactly what the assassination portended. It created a serious threat to the security of Germany, and it was up to people such as Walter to protect and defend their country in this moment of danger.

  Today his first task was to find out what the Russian tsar was thinking. This was what everyone wanted to know: the German ambassador, Walter's father, the foreign minister in Berlin, and the kaiser himself. And Walter, like the good intelligence officer he was, had a source of information.

  He scanned the congregation, trying to identify his man among the backs of heads, fearing he might not be there. Anton was a clerk at the Russian embassy. They met in Anglican churches because Anton could be sure there would be no one from his embassy there: most Russians belonged to the Orthodox Church, and those who did not were never employed in the diplomatic service.

  Anton was in charge of the cable office at the Russian embassy, so he saw every incoming and outgoing telegram. His information was priceless. But he was difficult to manage, and caused Walter much anxiety. Espionage frightened Anton, and when he got scared he would fail to show up--often at moments of international tension, like this one, when Walter needed him most.

  Walter was distracted by spotting Maud. He recognized the long, graceful neck rising out of a fashionable man-style wing collar, and his heart missed a beat. He kissed that neck whenever he got the chance.

  When he thought about the danger of war, his mind went first to Maud, then to his country. He felt ashamed of this selfishness, but he could not do anything about it. His greatest fear was that she would be taken from him; the threat to the fatherland came second. For Germany's sake he was willing to die--but not to live without the woman he loved.

  A head in the third row from the back turned, and Walter met the eye of Anton. The man had thinning brown hair and a patchy beard. Relieved, Walter walked to the south aisle, as if looking for a place, and after a moment's hesitation sat down.

  Anton's soul was full of bitterness. Five years ago, a nephew whom he had loved had been accused, by the tsar's secret police, of revolutionary activities, and had been imprisoned in the Fortress of Peter and Paul, across the river from the Winter Palace in the heart of St. Petersburg. The boy had been a theology student, and quite innocent of subversion; but before he could be released he had contracted pneumonia and died. Anton had been wreaking his quiet, deadly revenge against the tsar's government ever since.

  It was a pity the church was so well-lit. The architect, Christopher Wren, had put in long rows of huge round-arched windows. For this kind of work, a gloomy Gothic twilight would have been better. Still, Anton had chosen his position well, at the end of a row, with a child next to him and a massive wooden pillar behind.

  "Good place to sit," Walter murmured.

  "We can still be observed from the gallery," Anton fretted.

  Walter shook his head. "They will all be looking towards the front."

  Anton was a middle-aged bachelor. A small man, he was neat to the point of fussiness: the tie knotted tightly, every button done up on the jacket, the shoes gleaming. His well-worn suit was shiny from years of brushing and pressing. Walter thought this was a reaction against the grubbiness of espionage. After all, the man was there to betray his country. And I'm here to encourage him, Walter thought grimly.

  Walter said nothing more during the hush before the service, but as soon as the first hymn started he said in a low voice: "What's the mood in St. Petersburg?"

  "Russia does not want war," Anton said.

  "Good."

  "The tsar fears that war will lead to revolution." When Anton mentioned the tsar he looked as if he was going to spit. "Half St. Petersburg is on strike already. Of course, it does not occur to him that his own stupid brutality is what makes people want a revolution."

  "Indeed." Walter always had
to adjust for the fact that Anton's opinions were distorted by hate, but in this case the spy was not entirely wrong. Walter did not hate the tsar, but feared him. He had at his disposal the largest army in the world. Every discussion of Germany's security had to take that army into account. Germany was like a man whose next-door neighbor keeps a giant bear on a chain in the front garden. "What will the tsar do?"

  "It depends on Austria."

  Walter suppressed an impatient retort. Everyone was waiting to see what the Austrian emperor would do. He had to do something, because the assassinated archduke had been heir to his throne. Walter was hoping to learn about Austrian intentions from his cousin Robert later that day. That branch of the family was Catholic, like all the Austrian elite, and Robert would be at mass in Westminster Cathedral right now, but Walter would see him for lunch. Meanwhile Walter needed to know more about the Russians.

  He had to wait for another hymn. He tried to be patient. He looked up and studied the extravagant gilding of Wren's barrel vaults.

  The congregation broke into "Rock of Ages." "Suppose there is fighting in the Balkans," Walter murmured to Anton. "Will the Russians stay out of it?"

  "No. The tsar cannot stand aside if Serbia is attacked."

  Walter felt a chill. This was exactly the kind of escalation he was afraid of. "It would be madness to go to war over this!"

  "True. But the Russians can't let Austria control the Balkan region--they have to protect the Black Sea route."

  There was no arguing with that. Most of Russia's exports--grain from the southern cornfields and oil from the wells around Baku--were shipped to the world from Black Sea ports.

  Anton went on: "On the other hand, the tsar is also urging everyone to tread carefully."

  "In short, he can't make up his mind."

  "If you call it a mind."

  Walter nodded. The tsar was not an intelligent man. His dream was to return Russia to the golden age of the seventeenth century, and he was stupid enough to think that was possible. It was as if King George V were to try to re-create the Merrie England of Robin Hood. Since the tsar was barely rational, it was maddeningly difficult to predict what he would do.