Fall of Giants (The Century Trilogy)

by Ken Follett

  During the last hymn Walter's gaze wandered to Maud, sitting two rows in front on the other side. He watched her profile fondly as she sang with gusto.

  Anton's ambivalent report was unnerving. Walter felt more worried than he had been an hour ago. He said: "From now on, I need to see you every day."

  Anton looked panicky. "Not possible!" he said. "Too risky."

  "But the picture is changing hour by hour."

  "Next Sunday morning, Smith Square."

  That was the trouble with idealistic spies, Walter thought with frustration: you had no leverage. On the other hand, men who spied for money were never trustworthy. They would tell you what you wanted to hear in the hope of getting a bonus. With Anton, if he said the tsar was dithering, Walter could be confident that the tsar had not made a decision.

  "Meet me once in the middle of the week, then," Walter pleaded as the hymn came to an end.

  Anton did not reply. Instead of sitting down, he slipped away and left the church. "Damn," Walter said quietly, and the child in the next seat stared at him with disapproval.

  When the service was over he stood in the paved churchyard greeting acquaintances until Maud emerged with Fitz and Bea. Maud looked supernaturally graceful in a stylish gray figured velvet dress with a darker gray crepe overdress. It was not a very feminine color, perhaps, but it heightened her sculptured beauty and seemed to make her skin glow. Walter shook hands all round, wishing desperately for a few minutes alone with her. He exchanged pleasantries with Bea, a confection in candy-pink and cream lace, and agreed with a solemn Fitz that the assassination was a "bad business." Then the Fitzherberts moved away, and Walter feared he had missed his chance; but, at the last moment, Maud murmured: "I'll be at the duchess's house for tea."

  Walter smiled at her elegant back. He had seen Maud yesterday and he would see her tomorrow, yet he had been terrified that he might not get another chance to see her today. Was he really incapable of passing twenty-four hours without her? He did not think of himself as a weak man, but she had cast a spell over him. However, he had no wish to escape.

  It was her independent spirit that he found so attractive. Most women of his generation seemed content to play the passive role that society gave them, dressing beautifully and organizing parties and obeying their husbands. Walter was bored by the doormat type. Maud was more like some of the women he had met in the United States, during a stint at the German embassy in Washington. They were elegant and charming but not subservient. To be loved by a woman like that was unbearably exciting.

  He walked with a jaunty step along Piccadilly and stopped at a newsstand. Reading British papers was never pleasant: most were viciously anti-German, especially the rabid Daily Mail. They had the British believing they were surrounded by German spies. How Walter wished it were true! He had a dozen or so agents in coast towns, making notes of comings and goings at the docks, as the British had in German ports, but nothing like the thousands reported by hysterical newspaper editors.

  He bought a copy of the People. The trouble in the Balkans was not big news here: the British were more worried about Ireland. A minority of Protestants had ruled the roost there for hundreds of years, with scant regard for the Catholic majority. If Ireland won independence the boot would be on the other foot. Both sides were heavily armed, and civil war threatened.

  A single paragraph at the bottom of the front page referred to the "Austro-Servian Crisis." As usual, the newspapers had no idea what was really going on.

  As Walter turned into the Ritz Hotel, Robert jumped out of a motor taxi. He was wearing a black waistcoat and a black tie in mourning for the archduke. Robert had been one of Franz Ferdinand's set--progressive thinkers by the standards of the Viennese court, albeit conservative by any other measure. He had liked and respected the murdered man and his family, Walter knew.

  They left their top hats in the cloakroom and went into the dining room together. Walter felt protective toward Robert. Since they were boys he had known that his cousin was different. People called such men effeminate, but that was too crude: Robert was not a woman in a man's body. However, he had a lot of feminine traits, and this led Walter to treat him with a kind of understated chivalry.

  He looked like Walter, with the same regular features and hazel eyes, but his hair was longer and his mustache waxed and curled. "How are things with Lady M?" he said as they sat down. Walter had confided in him: Robert knew all about forbidden love.

  "She's wonderful, but my father can't get over her working in a slum clinic with a Jewish doctor."

  "Oh, dear--that's harsh," Robert said. "His objection might be understandable if she herself were a Jew."

  "I've been hoping he would warm to her gradually, meeting her socially now and again, and realizing that she is friendly with the most powerful men in the land; but it's not working."

  "Unfortunately, the crisis in the Balkans is only going to increase tension in"--Robert smiled--"forgive me, international relations."

  Walter forced a laugh. "We will work it out, whatever happens."

  Robert said nothing, but looked as if he was not so confident.

  Over Welsh lamb and potatoes with parsley sauce, Walter gave Robert the inconclusive information he had gleaned from Anton.

  Robert had news of his own. "We have established that the assassins got their guns and bombs from Serbia."

  "Oh, hell," said Walter.

  Robert let his anger show. "The arms were supplied by the head of Serbian military intelligence. The murderers were given target practise in a park in Belgrade."

  Walter said: "Intelligence officers sometimes act unilaterally."

  "Often. And the secrecy of their work means they may get away with it."

  "So this does not prove that the Serbian government organized the assassination. And, when you think logically about it, a small nation such as Serbia, trying desperately to preserve its independence, would be mad to provoke its powerful neighbor."

  "It is even possible that Serbian intelligence acted in direct opposition to the wishes of the government," Robert conceded. But then he said firmly: "That makes absolutely no difference at all. Austria must take action against Serbia."

  This was what Walter feared. The affair could no longer be regarded merely as a crime, to be dealt with by the police and the courts. It had escalated, and now an empire had to punish a small nation. Emperor Franz Joseph of Austria had been a great man in his time, conservative and devoutly religious but a strong leader. However, he was now eighty-four, and age had not made him any less authoritarian and narrow-minded. Such men thought they knew everything just because they were old. Walter's father was the same.

  My fate is in the hands of two monarchs, Walter thought, the tsar and the emperor. One is foolish, the other geriatric; yet they control the destiny of Maud and me and countless millions more Europeans. What an argument against monarchy!

  He thought hard while they ate dessert. When the coffee came he said optimistically: "I assume your aim will be to teach Serbia a sharp lesson without involving any other country."

  Robert swiftly dashed his hopes. "On the contrary," he said. "My emperor has written a personal letter to your kaiser."

  Walter was startled. He had heard nothing of this. "When?"

  "It was delivered yesterday."

  Like all diplomats, Walter hated it when monarchs talked directly to one another, instead of through their ministers. Anything could happen then. "What did he say?"

  "That Serbia must be eliminated as a political power."

  "No!" This was worse than Walter had feared. Shocked, he said: "Does he mean it?"

  "Everything depends on the reply."

  Walter frowned. Emperor Franz Joseph was asking for backing from Kaiser Wilhelm--that was the real point of the letter. The two countries were allies, so the kaiser was obliged to sound supportive, but his emphasis might be enthusiastic or reluctant, encouraging or cautious.

  "I trust Germany will back Austria, whatever
my emperor decides to do," Robert said severely.

  "You can't possibly want Germany to attack Serbia!" Walter protested.

  Robert was offended. "We want a reassurance that Germany will fulfill her obligations as our ally."

  Walter controlled his impatience. "The problem with that way of thinking is that it raises the stakes. Like Russia making supportive noises about Serbia, it encourages aggression. What we ought to do is calm everyone down."

  "I'm not sure I agree," Robert said stiffly. "Austria has suffered a terrible blow. The emperor cannot be seen to take it lightly. He who defies the giant must be crushed."

  "Let's try to keep this in proportion."

  Robert raised his voice. "The heir to the throne has been murdered!" A diner at the next table glanced up and frowned to hear German spoken in angry tones. Robert softened his speech but not his expression. "Don't talk to me about proportion."

  Walter tried to suppress his own feelings. It would be stupid and dangerous for Germany to get involved in this squabble, but telling Robert that would serve no purpose. It was Walter's job to glean information, not have an argument. "I quite understand," he said. "Is your view shared by everyone in Vienna?"

  "In Vienna, yes," said Robert. "Tisza is opposed." Istvan Tisza was the prime minister of Hungary, but subordinate to the Austrian emperor. "His alternative proposal is diplomatic encirclement of Serbia."

  "Less dramatic, perhaps, but also less risky," Walter observed carefully.

  "Too weak."

  Walter called for the bill. He was deeply unsettled by what he had heard. However, he did not want any ill feeling between himself and Robert. They trusted and helped one another, and he did not want that to change. On the pavement outside, he shook Robert's hand and clasped his elbow in a gesture of firm comradeship. "Whatever happens, we must stick together, cousin," he said. "We are allies, and always will be." He left it to Robert to decide whether he was talking about the two of them or their countries. They parted friends.

  He walked briskly across Green Park. Londoners were enjoying the sunshine, but there was a cloud of gloom over Walter's head. He had hoped that Germany and Russia would stay out of the Balkan crisis, but what he had learned so far today ominously suggested the opposite. Reaching Buckingham Palace, he turned left and walked along the Mall to the back entrance of the German embassy.

  His father had an office in the embassy: he spent about one week in three there. There was a painting of Kaiser Wilhelm on the wall and a framed photograph of Walter in lieutenant's uniform on the desk. Otto held in his hand a piece of pottery. He collected English ceramics, and loved to go hunting for unusual items. Looking more closely, Walter saw that this was a creamware fruit bowl, the edges delicately pierced and molded to mimic basketwork. Knowing his father's taste, he guessed it was eighteenth century.

  With Otto was Gottfried von Kessel, a cultural attache whom Walter disliked. Gottfried had thick dark hair combed with a side parting, and wore spectacles with thick lenses. He was the same age as Walter and also had a father in the diplomatic service, but despite having that much in common, they were not friends. Walter thought Gottfried was a toady.

  He nodded to Gottfried and sat down. "The Austrian emperor has written to our kaiser."

  "We know that," Gottfried said quickly.

  Walter ignored him. Gottfried was always trying to start a pissing contest. "No doubt the kaiser's reply will be amicable," he said to his father. "But a lot may depend upon nuance."

  "His Majesty has not yet confided in me."

  "But he will."

  Otto nodded. "It is the kind of thing he sometimes asks me about."

  "And if he urges caution, he might persuade the Austrians to be less belligerent."

  Gottfried said: "Why should he do that?"

  "To avoid Germany's being dragged into a war over such a worthless piece of territory as Serbia!"

  "What are you afraid of?" Gottfried said scornfully. "The Serbian army?"

  "I am afraid of the Russian army, and so should you be," Walter replied. "It is the largest in history--"

  "I know that," said Gottfried.

  Walter ignored the interruption. "In theory, the tsar can put six million men into the field within a few weeks--"

  "I know--"

  "--and that is more than the total population of Serbia."

  "I know."

  Walter sighed. "You seem to know everything, von Kessel. Do you know where the assassins got their guns and bombs?"

  "From Slav nationalists, I presume."

  "Any particular Slav nationalists, do you presume?"

  "Who knows?"

  "The Austrians know, I gather. They believe the arms came from the head of Serbian intelligence."

  Otto grunted in surprise. "That would make the Austrians vengeful."

  Gottfried said: "Austria is still ruled by its emperor. In the end, the decision for war can be made only by him."

  Walter nodded. "Not that a Habsburg emperor has ever needed much of an excuse to be ruthless and brutal."

  "What other way is there to rule an empire?"

  Walter did not rise to the bait. "Other than the Hungarian prime minister, who does not carry much weight, there seems to be no one urging caution. That role must fall to us." Walter stood up. He had reported his findings, and he did not want to stay any longer in the same room as the irritating Gottfried. "If you will excuse me, Father, I'll go to tea at the Duchess of Sussex's house and see what else is being said around town."

  Gottfried said: "The English don't pay calls on Sundays."

  "I have an invitation," Walter replied, and went out before he lost his temper.

  He threaded his way through Mayfair to Park Lane, where the Duke of Sussex had his palace. The duke played no role in the British government, but the duchess held a political salon. When Walter had arrived in London in December Fitz had introduced him to the duchess, who had made sure he was invited everywhere.

  He entered her drawing room, bowed, shook her plump hand, and said: "Everyone in London wants to know what will happen in Serbia, so, even though it is Sunday, I have come here to ask you, Your Grace."

  "There will be no war," she said, showing no awareness that he was joking. "Sit down and have a cup of tea. Of course it is tragic about the poor archduke and his wife, and no doubt the culprits will be punished, but how silly to think that great nations such as Germany and Britain would go to war over Serbia."

  Walter wished he could feel so confident. He took a chair near Maud, who smiled happily, and Lady Hermia, who nodded. There were a dozen people in the room, including the first lord of the admiralty, Winston Churchill. The decor was grandly out of date: too much heavy carved furniture, rich fabrics of a dozen different patterns, and every surface covered with ornaments, framed photographs, and vases of dried grasses. A footman handed Walter a cup of tea and offered milk and sugar.

  Walter was happy to be near Maud but, as always, he wanted more, and he immediately began to wonder whether there was any way they could contrive to be alone, even if only for a minute or two.

  The duchess said: "The problem, of course, is the weakness of the Turk."

  The pompous old bat was right, Walter thought. The Ottoman Empire was in decline, held back from modernization by a conservative Muslim priesthood. For centuries the Turkish sultan had kept order in the Balkan peninsula, from the Mediterranean coast of Greece as far north as Hungary, but now, decade by decade, it was pulling back. The nearest Great Powers, Austria and Russia, were trying to fill the vacuum. Between Austria and the Black Sea were Bosnia, Serbia, and Bulgaria in a line. Five years ago Austria had taken control of Bosnia. Now Austria was in a quarrel with Serbia, the middle one. The Russians looked at the map and saw that Bulgaria was the next domino, and that the Austrians could end up controlling the west coast of the Black Sea, threatening Russia's international trade.

  Meanwhile the subject peoples of the Austrian empire were starting to think they might rule themselv
es--which was why the Bosnian nationalist Gavrilo Princip had shot Archduke Franz Ferdinand in Sarajevo.

  Walter said: "It's a tragedy for Serbia. I should think their prime minister is ready to throw himself into the Danube."

  Maud said: "You mean the Volga."

  Walter looked at her, glad of the excuse to drink in her appearance. She had changed her clothes, and was wearing a royal blue tea gown over a pale pink lace blouse and a pink felt hat with a blue pompom. "I most certainly do not, Lady Maud," he said.

  She said: "The Volga runs through Belgrade, which is the capital of Serbia."

  Walter was about to protest again, then he hesitated. She knew perfectly well that the Volga hardly came within a thousand miles of Belgrade. What was she up to? "I am reluctant to contradict someone as well-informed as you, Lady Maud," he said. "All the same--"

  "We will look it up," she said. "My uncle, the duke, has one of the greatest libraries in London." She stood. "Come with me, and I shall prove you wrong."

  This was bold behavior for a well-bred young woman, and the duchess pursed her lips.

  Walter mimed a helpless shrug and followed Maud to the door.

  For a moment, Lady Hermia looked as if she might go too, but she was comfortably sunk in deep velvet upholstery, with a cup and saucer in her hand and a plate in her lap, and it was too much effort to move. "Don't be long," she said quietly, and ate some more cake. Then they were out of the room.

  Maud preceded Walter across the hall, where a couple of footmen stood like sentries. She stopped in front of a door and waited for Walter to open it. They went inside.

  The big room was silent. They were alone. Maud threw herself into Walter's arms. He hugged her hard, pressing her body against his. She turned her face up. "I love you," she said, and kissed him hungrily.

  After a minute she broke away, breathless. Walter looked at her adoringly. "You're outrageous," he said. "Saying the Volga runs through Belgrade!"